Lucille, Blind Son, Deep Blues, and an Empty Tobacco Can

[tectak]

Hi RC,
 what's not to like. This is as rich as it gets in short lines...but it is impoverished in equal measure my the enjambing. If I was to be honest rather than picky per se, I would say that it works for me BUT who is this one for? 
Dialect is always a kind of cover for all sorts of sins...like cliche and even spelling but that's fine by me as long as the song sings through it all...and it does. I won't be taking you to task, then, on that score. Not much wrong with this at all...as I honestly said...I like it. 

Christmas-day,
Tallulah, Louisiana;
I walk through
frosty fields,
sprawling boundless
with baby elephant-ear
tobacco leaves,Imagery spot on...give me more.
picked-over cotton
and tangerines,
to a shambled row
of pickers’
shotgun houses.
I knock
on a paint-slivered door,
and hear shuffling,
rustling, inside.
A short,
white-haired man,
pipe, dark glasses,
cracks open the door.

They told me,
up tha street,
you’re a guitar player,
tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here,
you wanna 
give it a workout?

What you drinkin?

What’s your pleasure?

I won’t say no to gin.

Done.
Be right back.

………………………………No, I cannot go on. It is all just fine...and that is Intensive crit.

Lucille’s laying out,
willowy reed-thin,
on the rumpled bed;
no signs from her.
Blind Son
takes my Martin,
and proceeds
to stroke,
hammer,
and fondle it;
sounds come out of it
in disbelief, but
no hesitation,
knee deep in cotton,
where they started out
back in slave days.

He tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf,
slides it
up an’ down
the strings;
they whine and cry,
like Robert Johnson’s
when the devil
tuned it up strange
at the crossroads,
Highway 8 an’ 1,
to a sound
unheard before.

Blind Son beams out:
Oh, man, ah lahk 
this gitah.

He speaks gently
to Lucille,
asks her
to sing “one ‘a
the ol’ ones.”
She rolls over
on her back
and commences to
knock me out,
with a voice
born in honky-tonks
and roadhouses,
sets time dancing,
hollering,
loving,
in booze
delirium.

Soft,
Billie Holiday tones,
women’s blues,
jazzed into
spaces between
pain and wonder,
joy and betrayal,
floating memories
of dance halls
and over-protective,
mean,
boyfriends,

Lying there,
she introduces me
to a blues-land
cyclone
resting inside people,
released
every Saturday night,
from dusk
to late morning,
doin’ tha cakewalk,
tha shimmy,
swingout,
tha buzzard lope;
slingin’ barbecue,
gamblers’ cards
on the table,
whiskey
and homebrew
flowin.’

“Dance all night,
dance tha night
ta mornin,’
shut tha door,
dance some more.”

She sings time
into enduring,
generous strokes
of queenly
celebration,
embodying a joy
borne out of
a brutal history,
redeeming
centuries
of her ancestors,
who move
ghostly limbs
in languorous
gestures
of survival.

I leave Blind Son the guitar,
and tell my new favorite singer:

Lucille, I hope you’re feelin’ better
soon.

“Better already.”