Originally posted 12/26/2005.

Long lines of twang
catch and hang me up
like nobody’s business.

It’s like religion.
I hear someone praying
and I understand the words,

might even admire them,
but I still wish those were my pleas
and my answers.

Take the song on the radio right now:
some guy I don’t know
is making some old Martin sit up and beg,

and I’m puzzling my way around
how it would feel to play that way,
even though at the same time

I’m imagining his hands get broken
and the club owner turns frantically to me,
gesturing to get my ass on stage.

All this is to say
that when you touch my arm, it’s like
Blind Willie Johnson is saying,

“Praise God I’m satisfied”
while blowing the slide up and down
the twelve rough strings of his old Stella.

I’m not feeling holy enough
to receive that sort of grace,
yet still I pray that you will

someday tremble the way I do
when I put my hand
upon yours.