A Poem for Fabio Thomas.
Fabio with your plucky little ribs like the strings of a guitar,
walks down the street like a guitar on wheels sliding down a hill.
Your hollow wooden body, that starts wide, then gets much narrower,
before it gets to your head at the top, which is like a headstock on a
guitar. Fabio, with his perfectly aligned pegs on the side of his face.
Constantly tuning himself in and out and off and on.
Fabio with your voice gentle and melodic, not quite as soft as
a violin, but similar, much like the gentle rhythms of a guitar, in fact.
Your skin always perfectly varnished, done by the guitar man
from the guitar shop, who you get on with really well
because you’re both interested in guitars.
You’re just Fabio- that guy we love, the guitar playing lumberjack
who smokes roll ups and likes american stuff. And Jimi Hendrix, who you
have a massive poster of in your room, because you say he was particularly
good at the guitar. Fabio whose favourite thing to do is have a massive spliff
and play the guitar with his friends who also love guitars.
Just Fabio, always with a plectrum behind your
ear at parties. Ready to get the guitar out and play jazz or whatever
music you listen to because you think the guitar in it is really good.
I remember when we first met in Arizona when you jumped out of that Jeep
and played a merry tune on your guitar and smiled,
then we drove off to live the American dream, and I didn’t like it
but you did because you love that shit and you’re always
happy when you’ve got a guitar, because that’s just you man.
