FOR HOWLIN’ WOLF IN HEAVEN
I surf and click, then raise his complex shade,
the presence and the poundage of a man
who took care of business, transcending his name
along the road between White Station,
Mississippi, and the juke joints of Chicago.
A diminutive screen contains him,
as he expounds the meaning of the blues –
a patriarch and mason, who had grasped his letters
like thorns, until his labours found a way
through the entanglement of clauses.
And see him as he takes the stage
in his ample suit, his ululation rising
from its buried source, a landscape
of estrangement where his mother
sets her face against his devil’s music.