The Gutbucket King

New Poem.

In our mitten-shaped city 
the poor neighborhoods 

cup the wealthy downtown 
like a thumb and palm

George lives in the palm
Crosses the rich streets every day

to make coin at a job in the thumb
At night he walks back just as poor

On Wednesdays he plays
gutbucket bass in the backing band

for a blues jam at a local bar where haughty boys
bearing new Strats and vintage Gibsons

come in now and then to try and finesse 
that muscled art with their prog-conditioned heads

but count on George (who lives by his rocking palm
and two-finger slam on old thick strings)

to steady them and calm it down
to twelve bar lope when things get floaty

George leaves the palm in the morning
and crosses those rich streets to his job

Now and then on his way he catches the eye
of some Richie Rich he’s had to school

who will nod
eager to catch a second glance from the Gutbucket King

George only rarely and incompletely
acknowledges this

as they both know which side of the mitten
he comes from and 

in this life
as is in the blues

nothing is likely to make either one
forget it