Fifty Years Old

I know it's rude, but I can't help but stare.
A thin body, thin as maple leaves not yet fallen
from the tree outside. The neck is long,
smooth as a freshly shaven face and
begging to be touched by calloused hands that
know her pleasures well.
Too well.

She's aged well over the years, nearly fifty now;
still as red as a Chevy Corvette from back in the day,
and still with the same, mellow voice that
just floats in and out of my ears.
She's classier than the rest, no need to raise her voice
to get someone's attention, never whiny but rich
in tone, in every inflection she makes.
I wonder how she hides any sign of age,
what her secrets are, and how her voice just
never changes.

I wonder if she ever knew George Harrison,
ever hung out with him when he was recording Let It Be.
Did she ever meet Eric Clapton, back before
he went solo and played with his first band?
What about Jimmy Page? Did she stay around to
hear him play his magnum opus?
It would have been unusual if she did.

All of these things I wonder as I sit with her,
a 1960s red Fender Telecaster.
I hold her in my arms, her thin neck fitting in my
hand in a far too natural way.
I run my hand down her strings, a simple cord
to start with.
A mellow voice sounds back, quiet
yet rich. Just as classy as I remember.
That alone is enough to convince me;
she knows how to win me over, just like she did
the rest.
I won't let her go.
Never again.