there is a closet full of guitars

in various states of withering.
the door is ajar like perused lips--
like a mouth with no teeth.
i open my own mouth & check for strings
underneath my tongue. broken frets 
& crooked necks & hollowed out bodies 
& skeleton stomachs all hum together--
all tell stories of fingers. they are all
my father's or my grandfather's. all made
of wood. all made of gun powder & 
open potato chip bags & pacing.
there are footsteps in those instruments.
there are long nights & lips 
pressed to brown bottles & children floating
in piles of bath tub bubbles.
i never put the guitars there but i still
feel responsible-- like they decided
they had to visit me-- like they thought
i might reach my hands in & save them.
a doctor comes to reach his hands in my mouth
while i lay in my bed. when i say doctor 
i really mean stranger. a stranger comes
to reach his hands in my mouth & he counts
my teeth & i ask if he remembers his father
& if his father played guitar. it's difficult 
to talk with someone else's hands in your mouth
& he says hush hush hush so i listen 
& he removes a guitar pick from 
under his tongue. he pulls strings & of me
& tunes them. he sings a Simon & Garfunkel song
my dad & i used to sing & the lyrics 
spin through me. maybe the stranger 
is my father-- no probably not he's too young
& my father wouldn't be in my bed room like this.
i do wonder if it was him who filled
that closet. did i deserve this? 
i consider getting in there with the guitars
& telling them how sad they make me.
maybe sad isn't the right word but 
sometimes i hate synonyms-- i'm not forlorn 
or solemn or unhappy. i'm just very sad.
there's no good reason for it so 
i will blame the guitars & tell them
no to leave me-- that i need them there 
& i'll leave the door slightly open
& i'll sleep with my mouth open 
hoping guitars fill that space too.
they tell me i should sleep now & i listen.
they tell me i'm a good son & 
i shake my head & they mimic me
shaking their broken necks too.