There’s two blues, Lady Day claimed, the hot blues

and the cool blues. It’s August. Must be hot.

“I’m the people. The mob. The mass.” The news

reports downtown burns. Tear gas. And the fraught

stand-offs. Blues? you say. Hon, you ain’t peoples.

Just good with your tongue. Sirens, still distant,

strut, pout, put it out; your skull-fucked tonsils,

“my seed, my plow, my storm.” Where’s the blunt?

you grunt, while outside the hotel window

smoke still rises. Cool blues in late August’s

swelter. You call your husband. Somewhere Carl’s

ghost sighs. The Good Work comes, but it is slow,

like the blues. It sounds nothing like my thrusts,

your gasps; our meager cries and cum and snarls.