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Lost Among the Hours
Alan Britt


FOR GEORGE

George eases his slide
into Gary Moore’s
“That Kind of Woman.”

Sneaks in, sans wah wah,
three quick licks,
then leans back into
a Bonnie Raitt sultry riff.

Brass on steel suggests
“Apple Scruffs” or “Layla”
as his Gretsch grinds its
antlers against the elephant
trunk of a thorny acacia.

He’s no yearling,
this George Harrison,
though hairless now
and staggering
through the gilded halls
of the Almighty.

A blue note from George’s guitar
sparks the nearby stall
of a nearby barn
igniting nearby hay.

Soon the entire barn is ablaze.

 

 
 
 
 

 

 
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