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He Plays the Blues With a Smile
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He plays the blues with a smile
across the street
as though from an adjacent shore,
chunking tranquil six-string rhythms
like a lonely silhouette,
Or a vacant lighthouse,
His baritone-brim hat is dithery and dull,
dripping with sod and soul,
dry, it looks wet
of blood, tears and sweat
by a world gone awry
or of a thousand trying storms;
he sits beside the seminary steps
with sorted eyes and saline lips,
a wrinkled bag of potato chips
by his side,
he takes a drink
then shoots you straight,
sings a song we’ll all forget
but wish we remembered;
at least from a photograph
his stratocaster paint
and lips would crackle out
another living limerick
as though we were
the waves against his shore.
His mouth quivers out another line,
on travail and woe-
the broken heart would hear
and be satisfied,
as though a raging sea now calm. And
grimacing out your thoughts in thirty seconds
where you’d merely dance around
the thought of your entire life,
as though you were a poem which no one can write,
he pops his knuckles and plays you true.
He takes a breath
and sings
a song about
himself.
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