Lady Sings the Blues

At the jukebox

it’s always the same song,

one for the lonely.


The cold change

forced into the slot

to pull the record from

its sleep.


The needle jabs at the delicate vinyl

trying to find a vein,

the signal howls pain through crackling speakers.


The lady stands back and

lets the jukebox soothe,

and in the empty bar

the lady sings the blues.


A version of this poem first published in Vox Poetica, Contributor Series 9, June 2011


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