|Who Can Sing the Blues
The sky looked like a twisted grey sheet above the black man as he beat the paint bucket in rat at tat tat rhythms. The hot humid air blanketed him in a misty summer rain, while the tourists mixed in with office people on the steamy hot city sidewalk. Leaning the bucket back for the high beats and tapping it forward for the lows, he could make it sing the way he sang in deep bluesy angst.
Aint no white people tip me none
And the rest walk on by me some
Just another black man blues
In the land of white rules
A man stopped and listened. He wore a jet-black suit with the shine of silk and the polish of money. His wispy blond hair was slicked back. He let a few bills fall from his hand into the man’s hat, and the paper fluttered like birds, landing softly.
The stain of oppression
Don’t mean much to a man in a funeral procession
Here is a double digit tip
Look at it and flip it
I got bills but I have no life
You see a suit and don’t know I buried my wife
You look at me and you see white
Take it cause means nothing when I go home at night
The money fell from his hands, fluttering in the breeze like flies.