Delta Blues

 
huffed the horse trough full of mule
dust, and the persimmon cheeks hollowed
in early September. A field of bluebells
captured an awol rebel sun shower,
then flanked a hackberry column
on the north fence line, and drank the rest
of the water. The old Southern Gentry
had long since vanished, but only rich white
folks could book space on the Glory Train.
Martin wasn’t born yet, so the saints weren’t
marchin’ in.

 
He left us south of the Mason-Dixon Line
in a cottonwood sharecropper shanty, squat
over the scratch dirt where an overseers
pointer pup itched his worms, then hung
a Rainbow Bread sign on our screen door
to set it apart from the trees. I grew up along
the Yazoo, where roly polys pushed each
other across farmed out river bottom flatland,
and ebony ivories still harped on ‘Delta Blues.’

~~~~~