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.