[I’m still working on this one. I don’t think it will be J. Alfred Prufrock long, but longer than I normally write. Typically, a poem just happens. I write it down. I move on. But this one wants to take its time.]
“And do you know…” She sang it, chanteuse, in the smoky room of her own mind. A dollar short. A day behind.
She gripped the mic and then she cried: “I’ll sing,” she sang, “…’til the day I die.”
And it was always the blues.
It was always the men in their long coats and polished shoes
And she never learned
The secret of love
And of life
And of song
Was the beauty of getting burned.