Love Sings the Blues

This, my girls and boys, my
ladies and gentlemen, is it.
My most famous piece of writing,
your favorite poem.

Love sings the blues.
Four words, coursing through
my mind for twenty years, now,
and you never knew.

I've written this poem over
and over and over and over again
and the result is always the same:
love sings the blues.

Oh, try the saxophone. No.
That doesn't cut it.
Try the trombone. Maybe the
piano. No? Harmonica.

When I wrote it last, I did
badly. I didn't understand things
as I do now. Even so, it would
have been good, because

I've had the idea for a long
time, now. Love sings
the blues. In dark smoky
drunken rooms, full of vapors,

perfume and circumstance.
Dance with me, will you?
Love sings the blues.
And blue is the color of

a child's eyes: a pretty blond
girl in the twilight of
adulthood, four years old, and
crossing her arms, mad at elders.

Love sings the blues.
So much happiness, so much
sadness occurs because of love.
You'd never know it,

because you're alive, living
your life. But when you go
to sleep at night, you'll
know, somewhere in that strange

zone, where you are not quite
animal, not quite god, that
what you are doing is only
being love, and that is the will

of the One who made you.
How do you know? Oh,
you'll know. I guarantee it,
or your money back.

Love sings the blues.
Sing.

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