Got blues in the washer.
Solid bass and drum backbeat
in the laundry. Guitar slides
and spins, and that whiskey
voice mellowed by water and suds,
“Ain’t but one way out,
and that’s through the dryer.”
My jazz is piled next to the iron.
I’ll work on syncopated pleats
and those improvised wrinkles.
Couldn’t get the scat out –
what I get for picnicking beneath
bird land – but so what?
Need to work in the rock garden,
rearranging those rolling stones.
Maybe pick some willburys,
pull a few bonamassa,
and deal with the infernal clapton.
I’ll chase off the black crows,
and later can some black-eyed peas.
As we were getting ready for our day out of the house this morning, my wife innocently commented, “I’ve got blues in the washer.” You have to know, when you’re married to someone who thinks they’re a writer, that every sentence is potential fodder….