Passing the guitar player

an echo of tremolo, strings haunting
but largely ignored
the player sits on the unmopped floor
guitar on his thigh
eyes fixed on the whir of nylon
and wood
vibrations intoxicating
him and me
standing there alone
absorbing the Malaguena
back and forth
the rock and cradle
the ebb and flow
a pliant Senor desiring his lover
and letting her go
he did not hear
when I said bravo
continued on with his variations
of yes and no
enchanted
bewitching
seeking a resolution
to what cannot be resolved
in the old song
like flames—like fragrant vapors
grown from the guitar
and will not be smothered
by applause

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