Ashes
Oh yeah, notes slip through slack guitar
Strummed by long lean brown fingers
Head bent down, hat askew, cigarette burning-- hanging on your lips
Words play across the smoke through burning ash
Soft hard words of love hot and love cold
In joints where peeling paint never gets finished
Where the river runs across itself every spring
Your house on stilts waits for it to go home-
Home where you can’t go, home you left a long time ago-
Now you sing for tips in a local juke joint --
A place where night is welcome,
A place where heat don’t go white hot-
Down that turn in the road
Inside those rusting gates
Your last blues song patiently waits
For that final ash to drop,
For you to come home –-
Copyright © Alex J Stokas | Year Posted 2015
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