The blues may be the life you’ve led
Or midnight hours in
An empty bed. But persecuting
Blues I’ve known
Could stalk
Like tigers, break like bone,
Pend like rope in
A gallows tree,
Make me curse
My pedigree,
Bitterness thick on
A rankling tongue,
A psalm to love that’s
Left unsung,
Rivers heading north
But ending South,
Funeral music
In a going-home mouth.
All riddles are blues,
And all blues are sad,
And I’m only mentioning
Some blues I’ve had.