poetry by j matthew waters

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
all rights reserved

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