Shotgun House

Clapboard off white domiciles squat over cinder blocks. Straining spine roof, curses prayers and laughter float like Pal Mal smoke toward rafters. Potbellied babies play in two rooms divided by tar paper. Playing Blues before church, sweating out bathtub Gin as the air sits on your chest. Geichies wail by guitar from the shotgun house. The heel of the Bluesman keeps time, Floreshiems tap out Morse code to sharecroppers married to the land... Picking the guitar like a scab. Tenderly, impatiently. Shotgun house...