There’s a place at the intersection
Of sadness and consummate joy
Called “the blues.”
I’ve built a house there,
a house I don’t live in.
I spend most of my time
Up one street or
Down the other.

I’ve tried painting other rooms
In other houses
With the brush
Used on my corner house,
But I never seem to get it right –
Always a little too bright or
A little too somber.

My house at the corner
Is always full of musicians
(or their music, after they’ve moved on)
And poets.
The occasional novelist passes through.
A few artists have left paintings there.

I feel more alive in this house
Than anywhere else.
Even when I’m alone.
Even when there’s a crowd of friends
And strangers.
Everybody’s welcome here.

(This poem needs another line or two for resolution,
But there is no resolution
For the blues.)