Blues and a Bad Deal

 Blues and a Bad Deal

 


It’s a cool autumn kinda air when he blows in through the open door

Cold night for Clarksdale – but no later than the usual

Humid air, cicada-buzz barely there under blues tunes

And the clink of drinks in this beat down, no Bourbon Street

Place – faded coat on the rack, shaky stroll to the bar.

 

A few heads turn – regular fellow

Sure he plays but oh, he ain’t the something he wants to be.

Slim-skinny from the Mississippi misery

And the folks guess - his third bar tonight?

 

No – hat askew, but his hands are calm

And no smell of whiskey on where his whiskers should be

Jacket smooth as cat-like he sidles up to the counter.

 

“Scotch, straight please-“ voice rasps in opposition

To his hands scooping glass and slinking to the back

Sinking into dark corner.

 

Cat-scratch, patched up guitar as he takes a sip –

And plays.

 

Fingers grip-slide on slicing soul strings

Double melody, defined – two voices in one

Tracing far too good harmonies, even ones the old ones couldn’t match

Rhythm infernal cadences along the way.

 

His gloomy face shows a grin as an old timer asks

“Johnson, where’d you learn to pick a tune like that?”

Coal-glow in his eyes as he shrugs, calming cool

Hands dancing like a man hunted

A man possessed

Already he hears the baying

Of hounds on his trail.

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