Old Blues
She slipped on the jeans one more time.
And took comfort from the old and the faded.
From fleet, flying days and crazier nights.
On the floors of some people she hated.
Screaming and shouting and then running off.
Those blue denim legs were so young.
Into the wild and into her life.
Away from her mother’s tongue
Backpacking through Europe on pennies per day.
Eating crepes and shallow one-liners.
Stopping at an old cathedral to pray.
Cheating the foreign designers
Meeting Stefan and calling his con.
Romancing the city. Up
until dawn.
Eat, drink and be married.
And then move along.
Stranger men and stranger beards.
Crinkling in the sun.
Brazilian heist in dungarees.
And the pocket held a gun.
Desperate for money, worse for wear.
Life is tricky turning tricks.
A little hole here and a little hoe there.
Nothing a patch won’t fix.
The old and the young, they came to call.
The bass thump-thumped against the wall.
She gave her body, but that was all.
Through glossy enamel splatter fights.
The pants became a work of art.
He painted landscapes in the Outback.
And loyalty on her heart.
She took the first flight home
The letter stuck to her hip.
She held back the tears and most of her fears
And arrived a day too late.
She slipped on the jeans one more time.
And though they were worn and quite jaded,
They went to the funeral and stood by her side.
With the woman she thought she had hated
A half empty house and talking is hard.
Harder still is paying her dues.
But now, at last, perhaps she has
A place to hang Old Blues.
