On Hearing Buddy Guy

On Hearing Buddy Guy

After the blistering show

at a south side blues club,

            (the real thing,

            not one of those downtown joints

            that cater to the tourists)

I step out into the humid night air,

walk the six blocks to my car,

still feeling the joy

that Buddy Guy

can squeeze out of so much pain.

I’ve been warned

this is a rough neighborhood.

But music takes the edge off

and my walk is solo smooth,

accompanied by the drumming

of others’ conversations,

and that brass buzz of beer in my head.

There are a few dark shapes here and there,

huddled under blankets.

And a cop car rolls slowly down the street,

eyes and guns on high alert,

as if 2.00 a.m. is a crime.

It’s not a crime, boys.

It’s a revelation.

John Grey

  

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.