the guitar

He sits in an old case
in another room.
He slowly gathers dust.
He sleeps alone.

He finds his heart
is always out of tune,
like six limp strings,
a pain to have to strum.

I try to lift him
from his chosen tomb,
twist the pegs and stretch the strings
to make brighter sounds.

But when the song is done
and I am gone
and he sits once again
in his faraway room

I'll miss the music,
but he will forget the song.
I wonder if I've held onto him
too long.

Maybe he'd be better off
in other hands-
with someone who could make
those tired strings truly dance.