Preacher Allgood

the piss of the blues

just when we know we can’t take it anymore
just when we know that we need something
when we’re desperate for something to help us get by
something that isn’t a god 
something that isn’t a superhero 
something that isn’t a sales pitch or a political slogan

just when we despair because that kind of something doesn’t exist
a decrepit and obscure old poet limps down an alley
to watch the final sunrise of his life
and the rats scurry out of his way
and the feral cats of the night pause to stare at him
and the smell of rotten garbage hangs in the air

and the poet unzips and pours out his final piss into a filthy oil slick  
and he coughs and he spits and he pukes and he pukes

and we all pause wherever we are as if we heard something  
something like creation bending a note on a battered blues harp