It’s the river roiling in the dusk,
a rainbow of silt and silver,
the bridge a double seadog,
misty M, the road to the capital
of Soul. Ghosts whisper around
street corners, Monk Cassava
still slipping whiskered suggestions
into your shell-like ear. And
the backbeat never ends, at night
it’s the last thing you hear, in
your sleep it drives your dreaming
to dance. It’s the long artery
of Poplar Avenue, which stretches
from Big Muddy, past White
Flight, and on into Alabama.
It’s the Sun, Stax and Beale.
It’s you, friend, with your hand out.
Stay there for a while. Old
Scratch will offer you his best
limousine. Or it just might be the
angels, who sing with B. B. King,
who know a good mojo when they see one.
Corey Mesler has published in numerous journals and anthologies. He has been nominated for a Pushcart numerous times, and two of his poems have been chosen for Garrison Keillor’s Writer’s Almanac. With his wife, he runs Burke’s Book Store in Memphis, TN. He can be found at www.coreymesler.com.