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Popcorn Shrimp At The Crossroads
A young man with an acoustic guitar
wearing a black suit and a fedora
is trying to resuscitate Robert Johnson
in a concrete shrimp shack painted like
the inside of Jim Morrison’s head.
It’s a long way from the crossroads
where Johnson made his bargain.
Either the music’s too loud or
I’m too old. I’m worried it’s the latter.
The groove is good, though, making
me wish I had my saxophone, which
is back in Brooklyn with so many other
things I wish I had.
Once again I’m using napkins
to capture a poem.
For never having had a drink,
I’ve written many of my poems on
napkins taken off bars with pens
borrowed from bartenders.
It’s hard to learn something isn’t
your scene anymore. Now I’m
happy with a book and a cup of tea
or a good record and someone to
listen to it with me. But I came
because someone asked and
if you don’t understand this
sentence then this must be
the first of my poems
2 December 2012