The 85S corridor was niggardly with rain
Falling in slight slants sparse as last locusts
Unable to quench the burning brush
Behind the Crossroads Church.
Conversation turned to lightning strikes
When in the crack and glare
Of an atmospheric conniption
I met Robert Johnson on the Frontage Rd.
I tried to steal from him
What he bartered from the Devil himself.
But my voice was swallowed whole
In the misty swoosh of interstate commerce
Hegemony is its own reward, he said,
His voice parched and acrid, with a tint of hubris,
And never drink whiskey from a bottle
You haven’t opened with your own two hands…