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Poem

We’re dancing with the blues, a twilight silent musical,
But it’s a fine soiree; a low rent way to have it all.
We’ll close our eyes and hum a tune, it’s one we’ll just make up,
And dub step till that stingy moon drops something in our cup.

We’re dancing with the blues. My baby brings her muse along.
I take my cue from her and get my Arthur Murray on.
My eyes adore her working poor while Frankie Valle sings.
If bourgeois life is for the birds, we’d better grow some wings.

We’re dancing with the blues and we re-use our coffee grounds.
We’re down to seeds and stems. Our stomachs make those empty sounds.
So jitterbugging on the lawn appeases our despair.
We’re going, going, almost gone, not getting anywhere.

We’re dancing with the blues. You know it’s not unusual
To leave some bills unpaid. In fact, I’d say it’s typical.
We’ll rumba into bankruptcy and join the welfare line,
Then do the hokey pokey as if everything were fine.

We’re dancing with the blues on wooden legs in shoes of stone.
My darlin’ don’t complain; the only loyal dame I’ve known.
She swings low Ginger Rogers style and smiles like Bettie Page.
We’re waltzing down the Walmart aisle without a living wage.
We’re dancing with the blues.

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