the eighth day.

on the eighth day

by

Jude kyrie

After the world

was completed

the day of rest taken.

On the eighth day

he invented the blues.

Even the songbirds

wail like an alto sax in pain.

Sitting alone on the bench

by the parkette

the color blue

Is everywhere I look,

the sky dark blue

dropping an

occasional raindrop tear.

A blue ladies dress

Blue umbrellas.

Blue memories

slowly jogging past.

The traffic

moans the blues.

In a muted cacophony.

Now a blue wind blows

gently almost sobbing into

a wailing drainpipe.

I sip my gatorade

Its flat and blue.

A cool breeze

blows by my face

from the blue waters

of the lake.

I hold up my finger

to touch the color blue.

But it passes

right through me.