The Devil’s Rag Piano

High above
the sluggish Mississippi,

way higher than
the southern pines

that reach like nervous virgins up

this hungry valley—

a crow flies.

I go

it alone.

See the crow fly.

Ya'll pass me
that bottle.

I go it alone.

Honey, I spit-comb
my gray-black hair back,

and I go

it alone.

I come round your room,
sweet-heart, I come.

Pass me
that bottle,
baby.

Six is this
and seven is that—

I’m coming over, 

hands in my pocket.

I’m coming over, 

girl, and I’m coming

alone.

I bet I go it alone.