Looking for a Woman with the Blues

he was looking for a woman with the blues,

the blue blue blues of a woman wronged

so blue in the glass we sang our sad songs

as he picked up his guitar and strummed along

he drove in behind a bucking bronc, defeat

in rusting mirrored triumph strutting

bravado offerings of self-loathing, no free lunch

for sad women in a dark and noisy bar, while she

grieving past competition won hands down,

a doe downed gutted consumed by fire

ashes blown across blackened, ice-covered ruins

singed rose lace curtains ruffled in the snow

then banshee clouds tattooed by purple thumbs

broke to women swimming up in smoke

that tasted of the hot blue fires of hell

but the winner was the saddest of us all

he’d found himself a woman with the blues