Thomas Meade

Rookie (July 11,1954 / Takoma Park, Maryland)

Air Guitar - Poem by Thomas Meade

for Tad

Now that the radiance of day
has been sucked into the hole
beyond those distant hills,
I am lying alone and listening,
hands clasped behind my head,
staring at the ceiling.
I take up the guitar,
on which I am a virtuoso,
and take a bottle-neck slide riff
for Bonnie, a bass-line tumble
for Flea. Eric, you're the man,
but you concentrate on the lyrics,
I'll rip on this solo. Neil,
you cajole the crowd,
I'll strike the thunderous chords,
the cacophonic feedback. Hey hey
my my, listen to me tear up
this thirty-two bar, one note solo.
Sit down here, Keith, and smoke
that cigarette. Looks like you
need a break. I'll take this one
for you. Just sit and watch Mick prance.
When I'm winded and had enough,
I put down my guitar,
out of mind, wipe the sweat
from my forehead and neck,
stand in the hall outside
your closed bedroom door
and just listen to you play,
not wanting to take the guitar from your hands.


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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 7, 2008



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