Substitute recommended
by my retired genius
who repaired
the battered '58 Gibson
for me over the years.
I found the home easily.
Once his door opened,
the talk poured out non-stop.
Another wiry man,
perhaps an occupational requirement,
this one strung too tight,
none of the laconic ways
of his predecessor.
The problem solved in minutes
with a bit of glue, still the flow
of words filled the room
in every niche not filled
with paraphernalia.
Just enough furniture
for the two of us to sit,
the walls lined
with long-play records and CDs,
the floor with tools and instruments.
He made a bit of music
before I found my excuse to exit.
The fast-falling leaves
of his talk followed me to my car door.
I now know where to go
to cure my troubles if I must,
but I will go at my peril.
No exorbitant fees lie in wait
in that nicotine-laced air.
Just a torrent of sound,
way more vocal music
than the human ear can take.
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