Fender he’s almost touching.

My Fender and me are laying on our backs 
dreaming of big sky country
I haven’t touched him in years. Or even pulled him from his hard-shell-casing. 
I forgot what a warm tone finds your ears and eyes. I’m forgetting more and more with each passing day.

I’m half blind. And another person I’m hearing call me by that movie star’s name.
but that ain’t me. and it never will be.
I like to hide away. where no one can see.
I got four pink walls staring down on me.

I’m staying as still as I can 
while I’m leaving what I love.

Fender he’s almost touching the palm of my, ‘search all you want in vain’ hand.

Next time take my left arm or a $50 but not my poems. -Bukowski