ROBERT JOHNSON

they said satan  
 taught him  
how to stroke that old guitar  
so she'd  
purr  
and coo  
and whimper  
and wail  
in the bliss  
of his long, dark fingers' caress,  
her strings bent hard  
and pressed against him,  
her moans and laughter  
rising from a deep black hole  
and set free  
to haunt the lonely liquored night  
even now  
through the tinny fuzz  
and crackle of an antique recording  
 
tricks  
the devil taught  
not long before  
he called the loan