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POEMS
AND SCRAPPER BLACKWELL
Here’s the thing about luck: the piano is tuned,
The glue and the wood of the guitar cured to wail,
The room, which until a few hours before
Was run-of-the mill hotel, has the right amount
Of funk on the walls, and some sort of science
Is in effect with the thick plaster and drapes.
Let’s not forget where this is taking place:
Downtown Chicago, 1930’s; the air in the room
Charged with transients, nickel stogies, and cheap whiskey.
It’s there, it’s free, and Leroy Carr tells Scrapper
Blackwell
It sure is good as they roll. Aren’t we lucky the
evening’s
Still young, and they’re buzzed just enough,
The engineer who records the song has cradled
The mike just so at the sound hole and keys,
No traveling salesman headed for Gary or
South Bend pounds shut up can’t a guy get
Any fucking sleep from his side of the wall.
In the morning, this chain reaction will be packed and
gone,
The way this air coated the tape,
The cable and cords that didn’t blow a fuse,
Whatever lie or hope got these two
Here in the first place, ready to play.
Leroy’s nasty stride and moan, right in the pocket.
Scrapper’s sly accents and punctuation.
Here’s the take where everything fit; it makes us
Lean a little bit closer to our speakers,
This killing joy.
