The same noise could be achieved with
an empty ice cream tub
and elastic bands that the postman had dropped
but it wouldn’t be quite the same


          the clatter from plucked strings
                      is forever controlled by you


but even with practice
and perfected technique
it’ll never mimic an acoustic
of real oak or metallic
that forever echo masterpiece
beneath trained fingertips

still, it’s something to play with
to distract you from dinner and call you
in deterrence from your other possessions


          until you get bored
              and the next one comes along


                             or until the old one scurries away
                      while you’re out shopping for
                 a newer obsession.

you don’t know yet
you’ll find out when you get home
that I’ve taken myself
back to the toyshop
and strode into the store beside

morphed myself into
the invaluable purchase of a
Fender Stratocaster

                   I feel no guilt, for
                                       I know
         you’ll find someone else to play with.

My sound?
you don’t have to binge on ice cream
to make me work.
for I’m the Real Thing,
crucial in your friend’s band
playing on their debut album.