he wore white sneakers,
and black glasses, and
played guitar and sung
the blues

he picked each string
and hit each note and
had voice like gravel
and a heart of gold

he was old but he was
chipper, he was broken
down but he still laughed
like it was 1923

he sung to the taste of
good food, he sung to
the taste of good beer,
he sung to the soul of
his old city, and he sung
for the sake of singing
itself

he, like each man up
there, was playing for
the sake of playing.
they were a quartet
of junker cars and
busted stereos

he sung those old time
blues, back in the days
of Robert Johnson and
racial inequality, back
when the water fountains
were separate but everyone
was still chasing a dream
so uniquely American

he sings and he plays and
his guitar is just smaller
than a normal


he sings those old times
blues with a smile on his
face, even as the world
writes new songs for the
next generation of gravel-
voiced blues-singers that
seem to enjoy life just a
little bit more than anyone
else