The Rebel
The last shavings.
Wood from his guitar.
And whatever else was in his treasure trove.
He used to be selfless.
He said that was trite as a favorite pit stop.
That stop sign is gone, now what?
Crushed up his favorite guitar.
His skateboard too.
Huh.
Right after the tombstone went up.
The crowd left.
Hmm.
When you get buried, they write stuff down.
Like good stuff.
He wasn’t sure he liked words.
Did he just play guitar and skateboard?
That stuff got splattered anyway.
The eulogies were trite as a guy spitting on the ground.
His best friend called him a rebel.
Maybe in death or life, but it left a prickly feeling in the ground.
Temptation.
The crowd left.
So he couldn’t play his ghost guitar after all.
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