Fruit picking from plectrums

I've been lost
In a Humbuckers
field, picking
plump fruit from
plectrums, to fill stomp boxes
full of ripe fancy.
My fingers
cut deep on thin strings,
and I bend
with gravel
as I work away fretless,
always keeping time.
Weighed down by
a solid body,
sustained by
the richness
of a pentatonic crop,
heavy with rocks.
Author's Note
Someone once told me that a male mid life crisis results in one of three things, divorce, a Harley or a Gibson Les Paul.
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