In a Lisboa Jazz bar around midnight on Rua da Rosa
I’m talking to Marcos, the twenty something seminarian
who tells me about his secret love affair
with what he gleefully calls
“The Devil’s music”

In black and white photos behind the bar
back in the day Robert Nighthawk plays
his slide guitar on Maxwell St in Chicago
and to his left Muddy Waters, eyes shut
strummin’ his guitar and hummin’

On the opposite wall there’s Miles
caressing his charismatic horn
and in a dusty gold frame, Lady Day
face and necklace aglow
in Satchmo’s shining trumpet

A million miles from home I grin and shake my head
while sincere, celibate Marcos belts out
“Crossroads Blues” and the Spirit takes us
back to the Mississippi Delta where the blues was born
and black folks were crucified on the cross of king cotton

Then he pulls out his B-flat-harp and it’s Kansas City
St. Louis, Memphis and Chicago…Christ, am I really
in Bairro Alto diggin’ the blues in candle light?

In the back, in the dim light of Moorish lamps
two ladies in black strapless fado dresses
are sippin’ and shakin’ their shapely derrières

while high up, under glass Diz in his black
beret, stands one foot crossing the other on tip toe
his back arched, blissfully wailing, cradling his horn