The sound of the slide of the glass
Over the steel and wood,
Buzzing and moaning and reliving
Decades of stomping sun-cooked cottonseed
Into red Alabama dirt,
Soaked into the walls.
The smoke from cigars—
Cylinder signs of cool—
Drifted and swirled underneath the ceiling fans.
When the song broke,
Just that half beat of forbearance,
He sang.
He sang like a tractor,
Full of grease, grit and smoke,
Tearing through the hard soil
Of a drought laden past.
Tonight when we leave,
I’ll go to Midtown down Cooper Ave.
And sleep with my windows open.
He’ll be on the Westside remembering
The road from the Blackbelt to Clarksdale,
But hell, at least he’s close to Beale.
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