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.

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