Mateo Poem by Sheila Knowles

Mateo sat on a rusty bench
outside his local bar
and polished his old guitar
with a crumpled up tissue
he’d pulled from the pocket
of his faded jeans

while Sophie watched
through the balcony rails
as he breathed
his whisky haws
onto the scratched wood
shining it
until his reflection
shook them by the throat
and his fingers
started to pluck and weave
their life through the strings

The music played off key
but his arthritic hands
were too tired and sore
to tune the old guitar

like her
he felt a comfort
in the imperfection
of the sounds
and the grainy melody
that filled the spaces
in the day’s drizzle

Mateo didn’t see her
but she knew he felt her
in his pulse
and he played her
in his strings
and she tried to run from clichés
but she couldn’t

her heart bled