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?
I never told you that for weeks, the graffiti on the backs of the bus seats said quest and that’s how I knew to kiss you
here now, wondering what’s next, someone has scrawled exodus
Some broken things, in the right light, still shine. And in a perfect wind, the fragmentary might fly. But mostly we forget this and gather too closely the sharp edges to our chest – seeking solace in those pieces that are left.