He’s listened so many times,
so often hummed under his breath
got those tricky slide-chords down
and without a trace of accent, sings:
“I'm gonna get up in the mornin',
I believe I'll dust my broom.”
Translation will provide no insight in to Robert Johnson
but he sings anyways, much to the ire of hermanita: “¿Que mierda es eso?”
the slick lust of the music burns his fingertips.
In twenty years, somewhere between Calí and Popayán
I’ll listen for him, he who saw to it to remind me
that music doesn’t come from headphones.
so often hummed under his breath
got those tricky slide-chords down
and without a trace of accent, sings:
“I'm gonna get up in the mornin',
I believe I'll dust my broom.”
Translation will provide no insight in to Robert Johnson
but he sings anyways, much to the ire of hermanita: “¿Que mierda es eso?”
the slick lust of the music burns his fingertips.
In twenty years, somewhere between Calí and Popayán
I’ll listen for him, he who saw to it to remind me
that music doesn’t come from headphones.
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