Blue.

The dead of afternoon with have to wait

The fish get to live another day

Because we aren't going fishing

or disguising ourselves as indians

I'm realizing that all that seemed right

Didn't matter at all

When the birds beckoned

You heard the call

Now, no one is here

To play at all

I'm just clinging to my youth

In the deep recesses of 19

The doctors were called

For my check up

The surgeons were brought

to cut me up

My wrinkled heart

Aged with patience

Drenched in forgiveness

This left the physicians confused

But what could I say?

It was my muse.