The color in me knows the blues,
it feels the hands deep pulling
to the surface the song of me.
Can’t wash away or drain out the
fullness crowding my insides
where its standing room only
in hallways and from chairs full of
listeners waiting for the pouring
over of what I got.
A song is a fingerprint, waiting for
horns and voices to vanish tears
from the life of the visions lifted
from the porch where I sit.
My bank of blues is full. My pockets empty.
I feed the food of my song
with words. I am never hungry.
Roger Singer 