The banjo beside her bed
Resting in its special stand –
I’d get into her bed and it would be looking up at me,
Glossy and unused,
Imposing and pristine.
Her husband bought it for her
Even though they now lived apart
And she told me she was taking lessons
From a man who owned a store
That sold musical instruments.
He was also friends with her husband.
She never played it in front of me
And I never asked her to play it in front of me.
I’d get into her bed and it would be looking up at me
With its five scorpion strings
And its perfect body in the soft light of her room.
It’s been five years since I’ve been in her room,
Lying in her bed and wondering if she could play that banjo,
Wondering just what the hell was going on between her
And the man who bought it for her.
I don’t wonder anymore
But it’s not because I don’t care anymore.
The banjo beside her bed
Resting in its special stand
Like the flowers he would buy for her
And have delivered to her job,
Standing all day in a small glass vase
Sitting on her desk for her to admire
While I sat on her bed
Looking at that banjo that looked back at me,
Both of us waiting for her to come home
And the banjo knowing she would only play him
After I had gone.
John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on the island of Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.