Inspired by the B.B. King/Eric Clapton video “Riding with the King”
Side touching side, they lean one into the other,
hugging guitars tighter than a wise man holds
onto a wandering gal, which is tight as he can clutch
without actually chaining her to the slippery surface
of his heart. The Lord promised to age B.B. the way all
bluesmen age, decorating him with a sweet snag
in his hip, a solo lecherous eye, and an abundance
of tales peppered and fueled by ’ssissippi sun and just
one more fried something—I know, I know, it ain’t no
good for me, but hell, I’m from down South, and down
there grease is a damn food group. For so long, he was
grand marshal for the calling of the catfish. Now history
threatens to overwhelm, pulling him to earth with pills
and needles, diluting the crimson kick in his blood.
I didn’t want to see the hasty Afro grow silvery sparse,
didn’t need his sugar sickness unwrapped on prime time,
certainly didn’t ever want to hear the blue grunt falter
as if, rehashing his woe, he had inhaled a pocket of air.
Once, in a cluttered Newport trailer, B.B. leaned forward,
touched a hammy hand to my forehead, insisted I was
hiding a piece of some angel. The voltage left his chapped
palm, sliced through like hooch, and settled restlessly
in the south of me. They cast the most remarkable spells,
these blue fathers. See how the guitar connects directly
to the belly. They dazzle with sharkskin and gold incisor,
work roots and moaning conjures, teach Northern children
the waning language of screen doors and spent matches.
Rotund on 2/4 time, impossibly sexy with all that misery
in him, B.B. laughs with his mouth wide open, serves up
a glimpse of old glitter, the odd pork sliver. The two of them
climb growl-first into that Caddy to cruise streets saddled
with old Negro names, streets where loose women beckon,
brothers check out the rims and storefronts spit glass teeth.
B.B. fills that backseat again and again in a circular tuxedo,
pearl buttons popping, bow tie lost forever under all that neck.
Craving my blue daddy, I scramble into that car, grab hold.
Clapton, looking like everybody’s picture of Jesus, floors it,
hurtling three old fools toward a common key, an enviable end.