GUITAR  I have always loved the word "guitar."  I have no memories of my father on the patioAt dusk, strumming a Spanish tune, Or my mother draped in that fawn wicker chairPolishing her flute; I have no memories of your song, distant SisterHeart, of those steel strings slidingAll night through the speaker of the car radioBetween Tucumcari and Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.Though I've never believed those storiesOf gypsy cascades, stolen hoses, castanets, And stars, of Airstream trailers and good fortune.Though I've never met Charlie Christian, thoughI've danced the floors of cold longshoremen's halls, Though I've waited with the overcoats at the rearOf concerts for lute, mandolin, and two guitars ?More than the music I love scaling its wovenStairways, more than the swirling chocolate of wood  I have always loved the word "guitar."