Nina Bennett

N i n a  B e n n e t t  

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Sun Studio Restaurant, Memphis Airport

I stride toward my connecting gate. The smell

of southern barbecue, sweet and smoky, 

wafts along the concourse.

The hostess seats me below a white Fender, 

black neck, mother-of-pearl frets, hands me

a menu designed like an album cover. 

When I aim my camera, the man

at the next table leans over. Matted 

hair pulled into a pony tail, unshaven, 

says he used to own a guitar just like

the one on the wall. Band broke up, 

rent due, sold his axe to pay the bills.