I met you one cold dark night,
on your stage of concrete and metal.
You sat their, tuning your only possession,
humming some nameless tune.

Single-hand, he played that slide,
how long did it take to practice?
Single copper tubing taped on your wrist,
while your only hand plucked strings better than I.

You didn't do it for money,
though some came your way.
You played for second-hand food,
and the shoes on your feet.

The rats were your audience,
garbage cans your fans.
Neon night lights your hot spot,
other vagrants adding harmonies.

You musta played 2 and 20 years,
flying your New Orleans Jazz.
You prayed to God, swore by Otis,
and slept well every night.

One day, a record exec came to you,
with a contract you couldn't read.
He spoke high school words, you didn't care,
you told him what he could do with that paper.

You play nightly, for those city streets,
off of Peachtree and MLK Blvd.
Entertaining the stars and the skies,
and anyone that came your way.

Including yours truly.

12/26/2003

Posted on 12/27/2003
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