(This poem is just not there yet--a draft in the true sense of the word. But I've never written a poem with a song lyric so for me it's a stretch.)
Jumpin’ Jack Flash
Who cannot bang the steering wheel
while listening to the Stones
after a long, hard day of taking it:
I was born in a crossfire hurricane
Open G with a capo on the fourth fret.
Recorded in what sounds like a trash can—
down and out, kicked to the curb lyrics,
the needle pulls the grove
as the vocals hitch a ride
on the riff in 4/4 time.
And I howled at my ma in the driving rain
The best blues songs gut you open,
praise the unhappiness inside of you,
the low-down dog in you.
Listen to Mick howl into the mic
reaching for that unrecorded starlight
bending and stretching the notes
cause it’s all right now
In fact, it’s better than alright
Panning for gold
in his raspy voice
in a song that sounds
like you’ve just arrived
instead of just left.