You Are Blues

By Paris Providence

You are blues, in a bar, 

When the city is wet, 

From the tears of the sinners, 

Who slept with regret.

You are blues, in a jazz band, 

The notes that drone low, 

When the city is icy, 

And speckled with snow.

Tender blues, from the country, 

When cotton was shed,

As the words of a dark man, 

Straw hat on his head.

You are blues, as the gospel, 

The southerners sang,

When the masters would sit back, 

To watch as they hang.

Subtle blues in the evening, 

When everything changed, 

And the roads turned to subways, 

The carts turned to trains.

Now you're blues, as the singer, 

Aside on the street,

For the chains of your brothers, 

Still latch round your feet.

By Paris Providence