Basement Feeders

Hung on the shop wall, forest green finish, pulled down
to howl and buck. Power chords
chugging through stations in my arms.
Ringing out such sweet, unnatural tremors.
We left it there, finger printed, our hair hung
low, whispering, and high-fiving.
Both gave more furtive glances
back than we had agreed on.

Clerk, his sticker plastered counter, hair hung lowest,
nodded at us in a righteous agreement.
Maybe only to some song stuck hammering
his head. He knew we weren't fit
to sit or slay on the throne. But we pulsed
with confident waves gathered from overblown
basement amplifiers and a diet of reverb
and juicy, full feedback. We had listened closely,
hovering and swaying until our eardrums
were taut and our bodies lean copies of magazine
pages, charts, and chord books.

There came a day, after climbing mountains of torn
tickets and half eaten popcorn buckets. The paycheck,
first of the first, evened up my eyes with easy divinity.
A host of Hendrix torpedoed my junker
to dangerous velocities. But we clung to vinyl seat-edges.
There, hands caked around the shining, strung trophy
the register released our victory and we scurry
to my basement, hungry to hum along.