No Clue How He Got So Blue
He sits here at his kitchen table
Linoleum cold under his feet
A glass of whiskey in his hand
Staring out at the busy city.
Couples holding hands walking the streets,
The distant beat of some music,
Traffic moving slow but steady.
He sits here at his kitchen table
Fondling his whiskey glass
Surrounded by the blues
Like the morning fog.
He sits
He drinks
He pours
He sits here at his kitchen table
With no clue how he got so blue.
He’s been alone for years now
Alone with his thoughts
Alone with his whiskey.
He sits here at his kitchen table
Spinning his glass of whiskey
In the icy ring on the table
Alone, looking out at the colorful world
While he has no clue
How he got so blue.
Roy W. Backes
© 2021
Roy W. Backes - Poetry 