Breakfast with the Blues
Wailing blues. Wailing guitar.
It should be dark and smokey,
closing in on midnight as
the honkey tonk piano fills in the gaps.
But it is morning. An omen perhaps.
Or an opportunity for memories
to have their way with you as you begin,
coffee and depression for breakfast,
a perfect groove despite the morning light
that burn your bloodshot eyes a bit.
You are glad you do not drink enough
to make it worse, make it all worse,
blurry and darker than it needs to be.
No, this morning every note rings perfectly
and the background riff is clear and sharp.
It is good to be alive, despite the music
and lies you once believed. Another sip of coffee,
perfect and almost bitter, sweet and creamy.
Feed me a breakfast of prayer and eggs
and send me on my way.
About this poem
Sitting at my favorite diner. Some great blues galumphing through the room. It is breakfast. I am fortunate. Blessed. Loved. The rest is gravy.
The image is legal stock photography, not one of mine.
I need a Blues Diner in Cambridge.