Borrowing the title and the mood of this song by John Fahey.
DAY EIGHTY-NINE (2015-7-6)
ON DOING AN EVIL DEED BLUES
The situation shifts into a minor key.
Somewhere, on a warm wood porch, a man leans forward,
tucking into the sound; there's a stereotype of johnson grass
hanging from the corner of his lip, shadowed by a hat.
Here, there's only the wet asphalt
and the scrape of metal on metal,
of rubber on water,
of today onto every tomorrow:
an imprint of things to come,
of things that were.
There's a torn neck of a shirt
and the slight raise of flesh over the eyebrow
where the forehead introduced itself
to the steering wheel.
Even if they ever did,
the choices that led here
don't look clear now:
the glass is hazy
and it might be your eyesight
and it might be the thin web of cracks
and it's probably somewhere else,
in-between the getting in the door
and the stumbling out into the rain.
Somewhere, out there, the man settles back,
and the strands of blues slip off the neck of the guitar
and die off, softly, barely breathing, into the night,
and here, you let your grip give up,
hands cramped, and sit back
while the noise
crowds back in.