Big Happy Guitar Case

As if latches along the femininity of steel
could muffle the hum: white plastic prone

to exaggeration, presidents clinking
when they kiss, heart-shaped picks

black as Beale, a toy train clickety-clack
just past the second fret (an apparatchik

and his bride-to-be inside eating veal with capers,
she missing the minstrel show.) The dark felt

in a coffin of merriment. Fancy that, starless.
Outside, sitting in the subway, a man in camo

leans on this tomb of music. Fingers making the jaws
yawn. Ready to insinuate glib whimsy

under the arch. Here come the light-stunned
tempters, and here the wind with its box of bodies.