Born on the Outskirts of Hazlehurst
There is mystery in the moment
in the here and in the now
much like the time when Robert Johnson
fell down on his knees
The greenery is incredulous
outside the city limits
cotton fields needing picking
workers singing the black man’s blues
Deals are made with the devil
on an ongoing basis
some better known than others
all with a common denominator
It’s not so much what you wish for
than what you think you need
guitar strapped on your back
heading up north on highway one
january two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
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