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Robert Johnson Feet
I walk, with Robert Johnson feet,
down to the crossroads.
I wish to make a deal,
but not with the Morning Star.
I stand on suicide ground
above planted criminals,
waiting for Diana to help me hunt.
“Would you be a muse,”
I’ll ask the goddess.
I’m looking for everything.
Will her arrows and dogs
point me there?
Will the crescent of her moon
shine it’s light upon my
destination?
Will her hand wrap
around mine, wrapped
around a pen
pressed to page?
I’m going to the crossroads,
with a sick dog at my heels.
He walks behind,
leading no longer.
More reserved,
he walks behind,
smelling the death ahead.
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