When I Listen to James Alley Blues

When I Listen to James Alley Blues

(“Let Bezalel, Oholiab, and every other skilled worker whom the Lord has given skill, ability, and knowledge for the work of building the sanctuary do all that the Lord has commanded.” Exodus 36:1)

Play the music within, the rhythm, the one step, two step;
run your fingers, slide them from fret to fret, hammer down,
bend the strings, the portamento of meadow birds seeking a mate.

There is no audience, there is no band,
the chairs are silent, the club stands at the bus stop in
the middle of another white choking blizzard. All the snow
has been shoveled, one corner to the next, and piled high in front
of every venue’s door.

No one can make it in tonight, no one is leaving home;
only those trapped within tonight, will sing and man the phones
that will not ring; midnight until gray dawn.

Play the music again, the ivory as yellow as granddad’s dentures,
the keys full of sidewalk cracks. The blues is invented on nights like these,
the grace notes on granite uprights are more good-natured with the oil
of a thousand fingers anointing them from smoky goodnights until
unexpected hellos.

Honestly, I would rather sneak up and play with those who stay behind
and find the songs that mother taught mother once her aunt and uncle
passed down the tempo that history insisted upon. I had heard it all speed
and trap; they played it lazy and snapped just behind beat number three.

And I sat there, relearning the songs I thought I discovered back between
Berkeley and Haight-Ashbury. Instead it was Carolina and the Virginias
where the skilled workers passed the simplest movements down through
vinyl and time.