Daisy

I flatly refuse
to rehash the genre
of describing an object
like a sexy body, only revealing
right at the end, the fallacy.
So let me say this, Daisy.
I love hammering on with you,
pulling off, creating twisty snakes
of updown sound
that lurk below guitar lines
and slide where they don't dare.
Pinging from twelfth to open
is a joy on your neck.
The treble punches spring
in burly bubbles
from the amp, popping
on the ear
like trick hearing aids.
You're heavy, but slim
and your painted wood swoops
bring me no end of grinning.
I can't play you half as well
as you deserve, but I'm trying.
My fingertips
are calloused over nicely
with an hour a day
of you and me time.
I admit, there are regions unexplored
by my inexpert twiddlings
and I aim to stop neglecting them,
running up and down the frets
like a drunk marmoset.
Oh we'll gig, I swear,
and this is not one of the air-filled vows
I've made and broken so often this year.
I'm going to make you a star.
You're a loud, obnoxious wonder
and the best part?
You make me look
that little bit cooler.