Robert Johnson poem

D I A N E K I R S T E N - M A R T I N

Out of the Blue

Robert Johnson drove the last bus into town.

Nights I worked late, I was his only rider.

He asked me if I knew blues,

said his daddy was the bluesman’s son,

his granddaddy, the Robert Johnson.

The way he’d been known to carry on,

it was more than possible. Cherokee eyes, chestnut face,

voice so sweet, he had a new woman every place

he pulled out his guitar.

"Story is, Johnson met the Devil at a crossroads.

Devil was playing the guitar.

‘What I would give to have that ax,’ says Grandpa.

‘It’s yours,’ Devil says.

Now, I lead a clean life," said the bus driver.

"I work, go home to my wife. My grandad’s whiskey

was poisoned on account of a woman."

Outside the bus, the snow had teeth.

Slush puddled under my boots on the bus floor.

"I know the blues," I said. "My boyfriend plays them."

I thought of the other night: waiting,

hanging every Christmas tree ornament,

falling asleep on the blood-colored, claw-foot sofa.

We were almost downtown. I tried to see

where I was in the dark.

All I saw was my own face in the window.

"What you want Santa to bring you?" asked Robert Johnson.

I told him I didn’t want anything.

He said: "Never knew a woman that doesn’t want nothin’."