Aged

I’m thinking again of Gallagher’s strat.
You can’t get that sweated scrubbed-out look
from a custom shop, and you can’t cheat it
down like some shabby-chic with a sanding-block.

Just the road-house hours—in the clubs
with the crowd and the guys with real chops.
And drinking too much. Aye, there’s the rub:
once you’ve slipped down the first the thirst never stops.

Then that night in the ditch looking up
at the stars when he thought it was lost:
tossed out like a fly-tip of building-scrap
and moonlight scaling the frets like frost.