tonight, it’s the Blues

that slow-doleful prayer for understanding –

a measure of salt for the cheeks on a night spent by the window

with a glass of something that burns (on the rocks, of course)

and that solitary pine for companion

tonight, it’s the Blues, yes

but tomorrow, I’ll be Jazz


the crocuses have awoken, a defiant yellow flare against the bricks

and my shoes have grown fonder this year of puddles than I might wish

so much so, that my toes have pruned by the end of the day

yet I am reluctant to cast them off –

who am I to come between lovers in the spring?