I hear a sound beside my crib—

the first of many more.

His tunes are my dreams

played gently with a chord.

I see a fight beside me

I could never understand.

He created music always

with a pick in his hand.

I smell a bitter smell

It is the smell of booze.

As the man hangs his head

and plays me the blues.

I forgot to say goodbye.

The guitar is now mine;

the strings worn and used

by the songs he left behind.

I feel something inside me

about my daddy today;

the music on his guitar means

more than words could ever say.