Bo Diddley

There were no cars in the lot,
for an early morning flight home.
Wondering if fog would lift;
remembering that so often from my time in Florida.

Only me in line,
and hoping flight isn’t cancelled.
The ticket agent’s eyes were diverted,
as he looked back.

I looked, and saw a man behind me; Quiet.
Not sure of his age, but older.
He was slightly hunched, with an aura.
Distinguished; clothes held memories.

Then I recalled—
Blues, Rock and Roll; classically trained;
A presence;
With that Iconic square guitar.

I turned; “Excuse me, sir. Are you Bo Diddley?”

Sweet smile. “Headed to Clarksdale, the Festival,” he said.

“And yes, I am Bo Diddley,”

Grinning, “King of Rock and Roll!”

Truly, he was.