John-Ward Leighton

WILLIE DIXON IS DEAD

Willy DixonWillie Dixon is dead,
said the voice on the phone.
Oh no I thought
I’d never met the man
but his passing hit me like a brick.
I’d paid my phone bill
so they wouldn’t cut me off,
then went and had a lunch I couldn’t afford.
He died of heart failure,
but don’t we all?
It was raining,
he died in Los Angeles,
and I seemed to be the only one who cared
as the rain ran off the brim of my hat.
I go back to my room
and unplugged the phone.
I throw a blanket over my body
and drift off to sleep.
Someone’s car alarm goes off
and I think of murder.
It stops and starts
and stops and starts.
I think of tying the owner of the car
to the fender of his car like a season killed deer
and let the fucking alarm wail directly
in his ear.
I wonder why people have alarms
then go where they can’t hear them?
I can’t even have the blues
without some dip-shit
wanting me to guard
his god dammed car.
Can’t even listen to my Willie Dixon songs
because the fucking alarm has gone off again!
It stops and I drift off to sleep
only to re-awake.
Willy Dixon is dead.