oh, now listen, to that blues man, singin' prayer
singin' words in ways we never
hoid woids sung thisaway, since Grandma on th Bayou,
me, to Mr. Jake,
Now mister jake, he was old country, old school
He settle a passle of flybit cows with a croon,
aimed right at the moon,
top o' his lungs, knowin'
I am the only voice I hear, my prayers
they soak down
may you arrive, said Mr. Jake
where you wisht you were, when we
learned of life in Louisiana from an old Siclilian
fisher man cook, who knew of
Tavasco Inlet, to Bayou Bleu,
you can feel black mud from the top of
the river, carried all this way,
to squish between my toes,
so I never fo'got toejam spreader was a
occupying principle behind any
search for pearls
once fed to pigs.
Mr. Jake taught me to think these muddy
with my toes, wigglin',
feel a nibblin'
hook, what do you know?
A thought while wondering if prayer is more the unwritten poetry blowing on breezes that sometimes feel like care-touch, figertip to cheek