Six foot six and bull muscle
fierce: the stage is barely big enough
for that man, who looms over
the mike like the genesis angel
over water. He peers out, takes
a measure of the room, brings
the harp up to his lips to start
the murmuring:
Something coming
right out of the night,
the sound his Mamma
labelled Devil's Music.
He stretches lungs and sounds
out a long dark yowl; soul trouble
shaken down, low as thunder;
all that lonely never left behind,
homeless boy now singing
in a man: oh don't you hear
me crying.
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