These are blue words, sad songs
that men write in the snow between sips of scotch
and the hum of a lady’s voice on the radio. Man, can she sing the blues;
like a mourning bird in the early dawn, like
a whisper between cracks of thunder.
You see, this is how you write out your blues.
But no man can live by ink alone.
So say it’s the blush behind the powder, the blood behind the blush
that makes men hurt. It’s not in their hearts or their fingers,
not in their jaws or necks or backs. It’s not a pain of labor, but
a smoulder of misery beneath their eyelids
when they remember what her face looked like.
Because they’re fair angels, those singers, like sirens on the rocks.
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