BLUES (AND BENJAMIN)
From The Southeast Review Volume 30.1
Very soon, the windows will shutter against August’s hurricanes,
but until then, swing them wide like a curveball pitch.
Pour me a bourbon and sing me the saddest song,
one that a woman taught you about regretting a man,
with a tenor saxophone in the chorus, a baritone voice
like the nightfall trains, the geese returning to the lake,
a father coming home each night to dinner and despair.
Sing about a blanket you spread under me last summer,
before the storm washed away Saturdays, before you forgot.
Sing the last slow dance, sing the last man who left.
A. E. Loveridge is an Atlanta, Georgia native now living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her poetry has most recently been published in The Tulane Review, Barely South Review, and Southern Women’s Review. She is the author of two chapbooks: Congregation and Poems for Business Travelers.