These Blues

Everyone wears pain at a bar.

These Blues 

I climbed up the long dark stairs,
saw her frozen on the bed.
I put out the palm of my hand 
on the coldness of her head.

The last time I saw her,
I showed her a photo in a frame.
She opened her eyes for a second or two
and told me her husband’s name.

Now I’ve got no taste for wine,
but I had two tall cans of beer.
Everyone wears pain at a bar.
Nobody bothered  me there. 

I buried her at Fair Lawn Cemetery,
laid her urn down in the dirt.
It’s just a shovel and a hole.
They don’t recognize the hurt.

She used to give me tea with honey,
on Christmas, we share a shot of booze.
She tried to leave me a little of her money,
but there’s nothing she could do for these blues.