Robert Johnson

When he walked away
from Son House’s knee
into a sticky night, he knew just
where to go.

At the crossroad
he met someone blue.
There was no contract
and no soul for sale.

Robert Johnson
wrestled the angel
and threw him
into the weeds.

He stole his color
and turned back
to the jook joints,
thinking that everything

would be different.
His first clue that he was right
came when he discovered he’d
been gone for months

instead of overnight
as he’d thought.
When he stepped to the stage
everyone shut up,

just like he’d hoped, but
he saw that he was
just out of sync. Notes he thought
were dead on quavered like fear.

People didn’t seem to
hear him right and there was too often
silence when he spoke. When Son House
said “you done good, son,” he felt

nothing. For the rest of his life
he tried to wipe the blue from his hands
onto his guitar and give back
the gift of the angel:

the holy stinging of the strings,
the memory of the night
of struggle, the way the laughter of the old men
turned to awe instead of welcome.