A blue foolish heart

 

beside the bar,

the old man uncomfortably sat,

across from the pianist,

sat lost in his tracks,

 

like some taxidermied parallax,

the black and white keys

of the truest blues stood still,

from once waltzing in such deep space earwax,

the old man dreamt of distant blue throwbacks,

 

to the working men’s club of yesteryear,

all since disappeared down the hatch,

drowned beneath all this craftmanshit beer,

of this washed-out cultural smear,

 

the old man sheds a pale blue tear,

that settles like magenta on brown-stained veneer,

and drips down the bar as the pianist reappears,

but yet to the slumber,

azure notes slip under,

those of the purist Bill Evans-like blues

fall on comatose ears