pitch blue room, Forrest Gray Yerman

i can’t see to write
the lights are out
billie’s moaning summer
blues and my hand casts
shadows over my pad


a pale kitchen sink light
the kind someone cries in
beats at the darkness
and the loss
of blue ladies
cocksure trumpeteers


an emptying bottle of
lexington casts a strong
bourbon shade over the black
shadow of my pale
hand i sit in the dark
and jazz because I like to
and my grandfather too
liked the musical blues of  
pitch blue rooms