Jessica F. Smith

The old man strums his guitar.
His feet are bony and cold, probably frostbitten;
he hunches, gazing upon threadbare knees,
huddled and shriveled upon himself in his lowly rags.
Old age flaunts itself in his thinness and balding head,
in the emphasized cords of his neck, the subtle yet obvious
suggestions of wrinkles mercilessly brushstroked on his face.

The old man strums his guitar,
holding it at his center, a soft yellow roundness,
the only thing that gives him heat.
When he was younger, it gave him passion,
like the fiery slash of a match flaring up at night.
The world has since turned to winter around him,
but he closes his eyes and opens his ears to the warm sounds.
Like a gentle pillar the guitar supports him—
his passion, his music, his only love.