Blues

The guitar bends in agony,
pulling strings as metaphor,
the harmonica speaks volumes
in a single wail.
The singer robs the sympathy of angels
with a plaintive expression
of love lost, love gone bad,
love left wanting, wasting.
A murder of crows trip
off the dreams of the slide guitar,
the player a harbinger
of both death and hope.

He commands us to smile and cry,
smile and cry,
hypnotized, composed,
in full view
of life's strange oaky knots.