Romella Kitchens (Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania)
From Georgia those blues came walking, wearing worn shoes.
Broken-hearted, migrant from the orphanages,
from foster cares and poverty homes to where they thought adequate
work and time would heal all those lost, longing, families
men and women in them.
Syncopated, unrelated to anything but what went away...
The things that did not stay.
Chain gang melodies.
Funeral dirges throaty and deep down in the burial dirt
sung for people that sometimes got nothing but a demised
promise, a contradiction then a lie in their lives.
Then, had to lay down and cease breathing like everyone else
on top of those preliminary pains.
Broken-hearted melody, all those sobbing life-chords,
death augments under a fleck-less, eternal sky.
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