The (Dreaded) Guitar Lesson

The (Dreaded) Guitar Lesson

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

Jannie Funster October 2008