The Guitars

August in a dried-up Georgia town,
Waiting for green at the intersection
Of passing-through and going-nowhere,

I count eight acoustic guitars
Side-by-side on stands 
In front of a boarded-up Jiffy Lube.

I squint through heat waves as if
At a mirage, searching for a sign or 
Someone minding from a sliver of shade.

But there's nothing and nobody,
Just the inexplicable guitars
Lined up like wonder's last defense.

When the light at last turns,
The traffic pulls off slowly, everyone
Sounding the guitars until they're gone.