Big Happy Guitar Case As if latches along the femininity of steel could muffle the hum: white plastic prone to exaggeration, presidents clinking when they kiss, heart-shaped picks black as Beale, a toy train clickety-clack just past the second fret (an apparatchik and his bride-to-be inside eating veal with capers, she missing the minstrel show.) The dark felt in a coffin of merriment. Fancy that, starless. Outside, sitting in the subway, a man in camo leans on this tomb of music. Fingers making the jaws yawn. Ready to insinuate glib whimsy under the arch. Here come the light-stunned tempters, and here the wind with its box of bodies.