SLAVE BLUES SERVED ON A THANKSGIVING SLAB

She absorbed
my breath
& odors
on a 270 pound frame;
she withstood
grunts
& false starts.
She felt the drip
of foul Vodka sweat
& a thick spaghetti strand
of mouth drool
pooling around her nipple.
Somewhere
far off
Sonny Boy sang
the blues
of men; his harp
pumped blood red
trapped
by women
of color
by instinct;
she, too,
trapped
by young deliveries
& aborted safety
finds America
in God's trust
& open-school nights.
Everyday,
another stranger's flesh,
everyday,
the same dinner;
everyday,
a cold,
a missing tooth;
everyday,
a cheap cologne;
everyday,
a budget
breaks: speeding ticket,
toothache, a discharge.
I finally finish,
pull out
& fish
for green slime
in a pocket that hangs
with shame
over the chair.
Here, pleasure, thanks.
She tucks it
next to the pocket knife
& pepper spray.
Anytime, she says,
just call, you're
fun. I better run.
Have a good holiday.
You, too.
Sonny sang Bird.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2017

I'VE GOT

the sad sad s,
the black twerlies,
the "everything tastes like shit"
blues. I think I'll put on
Sonny Boy
or read Hank.
I'll listen to slaves
sing and inhale
tobacco smoke
writers and follow
blind seers
and soothsayers.
And I'll drink,
yes, I'll drink
from them
and to them.
For you see
I know
what to do:
I've been black
and blue
before.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2013