i fettle the curves in the neck
and remorse plays on the strings of
my chords
the fancy love songs
and cherub blues you mourn, swoon
and swindle under my skin,
torn from a page lost
in fretful scorn,
a love-lorn loser who burns
like the scorched innuendo’s
you play on your horn—
a violin singing
a sliding trombone
beat to the drum
of your bluesy tone.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
revised 3/22
Photo by Joel Wyncott on Unsplash
Leave a Reply