grandpas can't be potheads

Are you
lost in the tune? You are
slouched like a hunchback as
your fingers dance, synchronized
across six strings. Your guitar
seems so small, yet the melody contains you: your head’s bowed,
chasing the rhythm through the wind as you keep the beat with your feet,
sitting criss-cross-applesauce. But

I wonder if drugs have ever opened a door in your head,
to a realm where
your music is the soundtrack. As you sway
back and forth
in the rags that cover your body, you seem at peace with
the connection between your mind and the melody; you’re in a place
I don’t exist.

Please open your eyes
and come back outside, Grandpa; show me
the wit you hide. If you’ve been
stashing your life in a pot and stirring it ‘round,
take my hand and show me the land you’ve created. I’ll believe
in your sights and sounds. I’d love to exist
behind your eyes.