He breathed out the blues with
the release of a raspy washboard,
capturing the days full of sweat
under a full sun or nights hanging
moss or in backrooms where spilled
whiskey drenches sawdust floors.
He had a birth of songs flash spitting
from hot greasy pans of his kingdom high
thoughts, peppered with dreams, shining
golden and dripping honey from his fingers
onto piano black and white teeth, feeding
back to him the life of toe tapping and the
sway that keeps his walk.
Roger Singer 