I often write poems for voices other than my own.
Perhaps it comes out of the same instinct
that sets me writing fiction.
I don't know.
It's my only excuse for assuming the right
to write this next poem.
I hope it's self-explanatory.
It's called "Blues To Be Sung In A Dark Voice."
"It's time to shine the bottom of my shoes.
Move over cousin, here comes my bad news.
Goodbye, good boy.
Hello, hello blue.
Milk man won't milk me.
Tailor won't suit me now.
So goodbye, good boy.
Florist won't let me smell his kind of bunch.
Grocer won't deliver me, that's a cinch.
Banker won't check me out to drink some lunch.
Jeweler just watches, he don't ring me up.
So goodbye, good boy.
Dealer won't cut me in on his old game.
Sheriff don't teach me how to spell my name.
Driver won't bus me, I'll get there just the same.
Garbage man don't give me no pick-me-up.
So goodbye, good boy.
Shoe men won't put bottoms on my top.
Druggist drug me down to see the cops.
Plumber won't bail me out, I'm here for keeps.
Railroad won't forgive my trespasses.
So goodbye, good boy.
Baker ain't going to roll me anymore.
Barber ain't going to cut me like before.
Mama can't get my knees down on the floor.
Doctor won't take my pulse because he can't keep it.
So goodbye, good boy.
Loan man likes that X on the dotted line.
Preacher, he keeps crossing me all the time.
Someone set fire to it.
It burns just fine.
Landlord ain't going to land on me again, Lord.
So goodbye, good boy."