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There’s a Gibson Les Paul with a broken
input jack lying belly-down on my
workbench. In under fifteen minutes, I
isolate the problem. I’m a surgeon

unmasked, hunched over a muted patient,
incapable of communicating
anything, aside from static. Wiring
the replacement in, my hand twitches—“Shit!”

There’s no time to waste apologizing,
but I do it anyway. While I scrape
away the solder, Ron buffs the back-plate
clean, and when we’re finished, there’s no telling

I slipped up. He asks about my father;
I shake my head, turn Jethro Tull louder.
© 2006 - 2019 tragiccomedy
Poem #4 from my Poetry Portfolio, submitted today in my Creative Writing class. It's a sonnet, not Shakespearean in style because I got bored, and it wasn't supposed to cadence like Dr. Seuss, so it doesn't.
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Comments (4)
Yoggington's avatar
I too, like this one. The way you've likened the broken guitar to a patient, the repairman to a surgeon. It works well.
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tragiccomedy's avatar
repairwoman!! repairwoman!!

also, thank you, i try. :D
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Rushy's avatar
I like this one a great deal, the narrative is so well constructed.
A sonnet that reads like the opening of a novel :thumbsup:
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tragiccomedy's avatar
awww thanks so much for the favourite!! :D i'm glad you liked it ^_^
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