Poems

Blue

Miles Davis. Kind of Blue.
The sound of subways, sidewalks, New

York, in early springtime, dew
gleaming on the traffic queue-

ing over Brooklyn Bridge, the view
of morning filled with such a hue

of sadness it would trouble you
into playing the trumpet too.



Lost Weekends

I’ve had Lost Weekends.
Lost weekdays too. The fog
of alcohol descends,
the floor becomes a bog
and down I go, sans friends,
sans everything, glug, glug...

I’ve had dark sojourns
...