Living the Blues
Living the Blues
A Poem by John Grey
I’ve got the personal pronoun blues.
The lobster in the aquarium is looking at me funny.
And there’s a big dog on the loose.
Meanwhile, I hear they’ve just hired a new head of network planning.
And you wonder why I’m so down.
The FBI is uncertain as to whether or not I’m a good citizen.
I’m finding it harder and harder to communicate with the younger generation.
Nothing is sacred. Not even my wife in a black dress.
And I have a feeling I’ve been swallowed by a big fish.
I just can’t get out from under.
It’s New Year’s Eve and I’ve just seen the x-rays.
I’m having to say “sorry” on a regular basis.
I never once get sent in off the bench.
And yes, none of my jackets fit.
It’s got nothing to do with B B King or Muddy Waters.
My blues come strictly from my sheep-like adherence
to my own concerns.
Nobody has faces but me.
The mailman is a Fascist.
I begin every sentence with “Not good.”
I end them the same way.
The world is changing and I can’t keep up.
And I’ve forgotten all those old dance steps.
So what’s a guy to do?
Play hopscotch? Move to some place called Scarsdale?
Send for the wreckers? Nail a moose head to the wall?
It’s like I sat down in a restaurant a month ago and I haven’t been served yet.
By the way, I’ve not cracked a smile in years.
Life’s like a piano where only the low notes work.
It’s a slave ship masquerading as a chess board.
And unfortunately it’s the job the agency sent me to fill.
Breathing has no sense of human decency.
So here I am, constantly telling myself
that, whatever I do it isn’t going to help.
Then someone calls and says they think they’ve found the trouble.
I’m an employee and I forgot to wash my hands.