I write poetry to get me out of my own bleak blackness. Doggerel if I have to, or even a limerick.
It is wonderful to read a few of your words. I worry. Out of place, almost surely, but I worry.
This is a cute little not-blues. (I love a story song. I still listen to “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree,” even though I memorized every inflection forty years ago.) The Crusaders had that late seventies TV-theme jazz funk down. And then there’s BB.
Be well, Anna.