Fender Medium

Nestled snugly beneath brass strings a guitar pick lives.
 
He makes his home between two frets,
Passing day after day looking out from the neck
Of the mahogany Epiphone;
The hollow, butter-yellow, soundbox he calls home.
 
White and smooth,
“Fender Medium”
His gold writing fades,
Mother of pearl, like a shell washed by waves
He waits.
 
Quietly hoping for the chance
To be held again between finger and thumb,
To feel the strings running under his strum,
Fill the air with a sound he is longing to hear,
If only someone would get over their crippling fear,
Or lack of inspiration,
Or worn out motivation,
He waits for the day
They start
To play.