On a quiet street corner
Down from the cafes
A blind, grey-bearded bluesman
Cups hands to face
Sucks and blows a slow lament.

Pure notes, meaning little by themselves
Strung together create meaning and the blues
Notes, man, islands …
“No note is an island, entire of itself”
Solitary harmony on a harmonica
Rich in irony

Grief the accompaniment
.
Playing an octave lower
.
Quavering
.
Out of tune.

Chris Perley
March 2012

RIP Dad