Emma-Liz Sings the Blues

She can hear–she can hear them plainly through the walls.
She can hear it–their “Blue – uncertain stumbling buzz”–
in her knees, her back, and the arch of her guitar–
she knows they’re there.

Honey, life’s so strange.
Read me that poem again.
Stand it up, hit it upside the head.
Art–it’s just a bullet hole in a tin can.
Because lately–lately.

They can smell it–in the fragile and cumbersome structures of her songs.
Opens the window–and a starling flies in from the mid-winter air,
alights on the back of the opposite chair–
while she stares, it stares.

Honey, life’s so strange.
Read me that poem again.
Stand it up, hit it upside the head.
Art–it’s just a bullet hole in a tin can.

No, it’s more like your brand new boots.
Your many faces and hands marching by in ones and twos.
Heyheyhey, it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life when
Emma-Liz sings the blues.
When Emma-Liz sings the blues.
Emma-Liz sings the blues.
Because lately–
lately.