So You Have the Blues

If you’re alone and the tea cups
Give reproof as though
You’re the child
Who’s stolen a morsel
Then you’re the one.

A pollen of ashes
Comes through the window.
Music is restrained.
And there’s no shepherd,
No dispenser of dew;
No “maker.”

And yes the stars go on dissolving,
The day appears.
If there was something to say
You’d say it. Go ahead:

Play old recordings,
Victor 78’s, a tenor singing
As through a steam pipe—
His chipped off,
Alchemized voice.

Oh little one, I’m sorry.

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto