"The devil did not come
Or if he did, in disguise as nothing"
I waited, like Robert Johnson,
at the crossroads, skull
of moon glaring
down at these brown fields,
blacktop awash in lurid
He was past his time.
Sweatshirt weather, or
a little colder, and I shivered
in my hood, hands meeting
in the open pocket across
my chest, feet dancing a little,
knees bending and straightening
like a catcher shaking out the kinks.
My breath seeped out, spread
thin as a departing soul.
Like Cain I waited, breath
coming in shallow gasps, eyes
straining down the road
into darkness. I had wares
to sell, I waited like a roadside
stand. Oh, the greedy itching
of my palms!
I craved a consultation,
just a bit of conversation
with His Majesty, The Lord of Flies.
All night frogs called out their love.
Could those throaty
sounds be him, could he be hunched
in marshland with a million green
minions, swamp water seeping
up around tight webbed feet?
I call and call and night answers.
"Nothing," she moans,
"Nothing, nothing, nothing."
I wait like someone with something
to give for something mighty in return.