I woke up this morning,
as the blues singers like to boast
Billy Collins
I woke up this morning
as the blues singers like to boast
having drank all night
because of woman trouble
with some colorful free spirit
of a gal with gunshot scars
who is named for a city
named on some list of cities,
the worse to live in
in the entirety of the United States.
Not me but the blues guys
and I mean both kinds
the real one who know what it
means to be class four and thirty
here in the Delta and the white guys
with the bad teeth from England
who worship them.
At any rate I did in fact
wake up this morning and having
sufficient brain cells still on hand and
firing decided to get myself a beer
in the words of Jim Morrison who sort
of did poetry in a Texas Psychedelic way
with a nod to the tight pants bad teeth
guys who wished they were
the Delta blues guys who may
or may not have been named
for a Southern water way.
So I drank the aforementioned
beer and two of her sisters
who sported a new look for the same
old Miller Highlife Quarts
I have been drinking for years.
Then I sat down and read
some really great poetry and thought
about all the poems I have
written that started out
like a blues mans brag. What is it
then about the morning that compels me to write about
it? Maybe just the overwhelming
feeling of winning by just hanging in there
one more day, no greater feeling than
getting shot at and missed.
So much better than getting shit on and hit.
