Posted in Books & Stories, Music, poetry, tragedy

Sunday Morning Getting Down


August half done as I sip my cup
I imbibe with bourbon in the cappuccino
In my cup and Friday’s Post-Dispatch still on the table announcing the news
Unwilling to part with it
Rather not part with you
Aretha’s gone
All she’s done will live on but it hurts
It hurts
Not like when Kennedy was shot
A horror, devastation of a different kind
It hurts like a child reaching out to no arms there
Queen of souls
Our soul she sang held so many souls in her hand
We’ve lost something special, so precious and pure
A force of nature, a reckoning that’s for sure
Throws the fur on the floor singing her heart
Singing us
Rest in peace
No more pain
You lost the battle they say
You’ve won
See you on the next plane