The (dreaded) Guitar Lesson

The guitar lesson loomed but I wanted to eat chocolate cake

vacuum the cat hair off the green velvet sofa

find the perfect rhyme for “was”

organize my socks

and sleep

 —  anything but The Guitar Lesson.

Somehow I slumped my guitar and my body into the car

and something sucked me towards my guitar teacher’s house

    guitar teacher’s house

                 guitar teacher’s house.

I passed parks

passed signs hungry for dollars and votes

passed obscenely green palms

and merry fountains who didn’t have guitar lessons

                                                        they hadn’t practised for.

Passed a boy on a bicycle picking his nose

a homeless man wearing nothing but a skirt

restaurants and dens of probable ill repute.

I waited at ten red lights with my shoulders hunched,

bottom lip out like a kid who can’t have candy until after dinner.

At the final red light my migraine lifted a bit

and I thought of Noam Chomsy, 

then of Charles Bukowski

then of Jim Ignatowsky.

Soon I was outside my guitar teacher’s house

ten minutes early but still not too late to flee.

I grew more anxious,

told myself I’d lived through worse

hummed a new song, (one I might put bagpipes on)

turned off the motor

put the keys in my purse

went around to the other side

                                     got my guitar

— had a sudden urge to punch it in the face

locked the car

turned in slo-mo to my teacher’s door

rang the bell and readied a smile