the git-tar blended real nice with the yellowness of his shirt
and the way he sang, with his mouth all over the place,
made your mouth curve up into what can only be recognized as a grin
and his white and black fancy shoes, the type you’d wear with your zoot suit, tapped
the wood board so it nudged the tambourine, convincing it to jingle along
the man behind me nodded his head with that tambourine like he couldn’t agree more, closed his eyes for just longer than a blink and heaved a sigh that said, “tonight i ain’t got no worries” whenever a good song was over
and the man beside me tapped his sandals filled with socks on the linoleum floor, didn’t let his work call him away, just leaned back on our less than comfortable couch and tapped his foot along.
mr. blues man used a wine bottle neck on his finger to get his sound, and his fingers plucked away on the strings like they had nothing better to do, and you know i can’t think of one damn thing that would be better either
his forehead was most of his head and he didn't have no hair except some grey fuzz that rested up there on his head and when he was real into the song his brows would go up and invade his forehead making you think he had wrinkles but really his skin was hugging close together, just like us on the couch.
and all of us, we couldn’t stop grinnin’
even though he was playin’ the blues.