Wider than me and nearly as tall was the guitar;
A deep and resonant belly and half-a-dozen nylon strings
Slid down the walnut neck to a simple, elegant head-stock.
The curve of the body rested concave on my knee
And I ran my fingers down the board’s deep grooves;
The strings were callously textured and I winced in the slide.
Grasping the neck with my tiny left hand, thumb resting low
And straight on the rounded back, I struggled to play the guitar-
Fit for someone else’s hands and fingers, maybe,
But mine were then and still are now too small and pained to try.
prince nothing 