Blues

My latest.

Blues

Two hours a week, local PBS plays the blues,

not nearly long enough to do them justice.

Life has its ways of putting the screws

to all the best plans, short-term or long.

Blues move in with the weak and the strong,

build nests in the basement, reside in the attic.

They don’t respect age or reverence the worthy:

doling out misery is automatic.

Blues must be sung whatever the season.

Suffering never sleeps or goes on vacation,

but changes its guise to fit the occasion,

shape-shifter of grimace and fallen faces.

So wail out the woe for what’s long proven:

blues are the theme to call yourself human.