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The Old Guitarist, by Thomas Emmet
The Spanish guitar hangs
From his crumpled, haggard frame.
His deathly thin arms stretch
across it, strumming.
Each note a clawing testimony,
To his need for money, food, and life.
It wasn’t always like this.
Once, there was a home,
Once, there was a family.
It was debt that ate
These things, stole them away.
So now he sits,
Strumming the shadow
of what he was.
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