Past 3 Oclock For Bb King

There was so much rain in your voice. Daytimes that slept with shadows. Perfect perfidies piling your W.C. Handy eight-bar bravado I never knew your midnight, your pluck of broken glass. You told stories that left ash trays. Burning, burned, ashes of bruised door frames and sweaty bodies from emptying yourself in emptier women. Too many Lucille’s, but only one fire. A slow burn that taught only one thing worth saving: nothing. You taught us white boys that crying ain’t got nothing to do with tears. That we can’t apologize for leaving our eyes in the alleyway. That you can’t slam every door without someone wanting to know why the wind will always resist it. Today is the first time the rain sounded soaked. Like an old man waiting for God to answer for his suffering. Why he gave us a voice, and why he made us weep for it. And we end again, that wilted sun of repetition. That ghost finally appears; that final E9 transuding through the heavy breath you shake loose. You undress every agony and loved her greater than pain. And the night gave you what God never grants us: nothing.