Your Blues Are Mine

by Lynn Strongin

Summer’s end, pinpointed to dots of paint:

This brick building



Dim-lit by morning sun the bed we no longer share: the chair.

Mourning sons

nobody promised happiness: but it comes.



Short walks: feeding turkeys.

Your husband

Putting his arms around you



      Forget how it used to be:

      Blues are ours: in this strange time, women testify.