In the clear
with Robert Johnson,

his hellhound
far behind for once,

a crossroad up ahead
but it’s noon and with nothing

left to deal 
there’s not much fear 

of encountering anything more
than a bit of traffic.

It’s all so ordinary.
You would think

that having Ghost Bob
silent at my side, 

his Kalamazoo slung caseless
across his back, 

would be reason enough
for fear sweat — no.

He’s a comfort, with hand 
on my shoulder, a nod

for every choice I make.
On the rare occasions

he sits and plays, almost never
a blue note’s heard.  

Once I begged him
to stop and bend a string or two

for my sake. He turned away
and played twelve bars

of what he still had inside,
and I broke a little.

I’m still broken — hence, this journey.
I feel a need to apologize

for making him
give me that

when he so clearly
wanted it left behind him

with the big black dog,
with the hat tipper

at the last intersection
who had mocked him

for going somewhere,
anywhere,

as if he could outrun
his Creditor

by simply not playing
the blues.

We’re stuck together,
Robert and me,

by our compulsions 
but not today,

today it’s by choice
and the sun’s out

and Bob plays
“Every Man A King,”

a song neither of us
believe in,

but it’s fun to pretend
now and then

that we can’t hear
the Dog behind us,

and that two roads crossing
is just a mark on a map.