Son House

on some stint 10,000
remains stuck in my head
from Death Letter, something of
the like: the start of a poem
that someone wrote for me
90 years ago.

if i could break through time
i wonder if i would go back
91 years ago
and claim one as mine
that is not mine: if i
could handle being a Southerner
for 90 years,
10,000 if i'm unluckly stuck
in this Purgatory
(which would not exist to me
as a South Baptist Bluesman).

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