~ Blues
By Manicmuze
His bowed hat, and all of that blue tucked up under for the under-loved, the under-paid and the fading ones. Those shades of blue he's unpacking, tunes about lacking, those baby left me, baby blue, blues. He's bending notes, slouched against a bar stool in stained rooms where you could peel smoke off air. The fog perched there, as his belly relaxes over his belt. And every feeling ever felt is in his voice and dancing in his eyes. A man whose music soothes souls, rubs aching backs, and passes the collection pail for overdue tears, a receivable, with years of appreciation. And he lays it down casually like a barmaid tip. As the harps have a musical conversation, and the sax refills his glass. In twelve measures of rain down on me spirituality, sexuality, defined as Chicago blues, there are no laps of luxury. Only overflowing ashtrays and one guitar, bottleneck slides, -one, -four, -five, watery eyes and smiles. Until closing time, when that bowed hat tips to the crowd, and all of that blue turns navy. © on Jan 24 2003 06:21 AM PST, Wendy Hammond personal • other
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"His bowed hat, ..."