Blues For Barack - Work Song

The glinty-eyed Roman faces in suits
that stand behind you
are all white, like the papers you sign.

the patrons at the bar in Birdland
would shout work work
when Lester lept into a solo.

I remember why he drank himself
to death
in a small room at the Alvin. Do you?

There are nameless voices that cry out
from the Chattahoochee
Brickyard in Atlanta. Mr Backlash Mr Backlash

sweat & blood stolen like money
transmigrating generations
James W. English, First National Bank,

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poem by Peter Bormuth
Added by Poetry Lover
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