Toward the end of a hard day's work, sometimes I get to feeling low.
I don't own much besides my shirt and my loving life is touch and go.
I sing the blues because I see that nothing's right and plenty's wrong.
Then I hear this bird up close mocking my sad complaining song:
When I told Janet about the poems I have written through the years,
She said, "Mr. Damico, it's sad. They'll turn to dust and disappear.
If you'll let me help you file, in order, all your poetry,
I'll gather a list of contests and publishers who'll take your poetry."
I'm holding back from going to see him-
To take a cab to the sad part of town.
Afraid to add to a heart that's grieving
With all those memories hanging around.