Treasure Island

Mark R Slaughter


Adirondack Airs


Cigar
O how she fogs
the room

lil' Betelgeuse
reddens on the draw

she's parked
tucked inside the dryness
of my mouth



Detuned courses
ring to fingers

steel blues
cools the air

I'm under call
of axe

we're mates

bending out a bass
I hammer on
to drift

I, BLANK-FACE

whisky-honed black-eyes

cruise the abalone

adirondack airs the tone
to life

She sings!

my only need -
a dozen strings


Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012

Submitted: Monday, November 19, 2012
Edited: Sunday, October 06, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

An ode to Dolly, my Blueridge 12-string guitar

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