Poem of the Week 6/26/18
Stuart Leonard
Mr. Blue
She painted the car
with a brush of her own.
Went and named it, Mr. Blue.
Could’ve been just another blue Chevy,
and I never thought she named it Mr. Blue
just because the car was blue,
or because her eyes were blue,
or her heart,
or a blue moon over Jersey,
or her dad strumming the blues,
or the blue captain’s uniform
her first step-father wore
when he visited her at night.
It was all of that,
a Who song,
a sky to fall from,
a blue ’72 Impala,
Turbo-Jet 400, four-barrel carb,
and Deluxe features.
Hit 150 on the turnpike, four in the morning,
near the Pulaski Skyway,
and we laughed as the world
was torn into shreds.
Mr. Blue wasn’t dragging along any baggage.
Took us way uptown, to the bag-lands,
gun to your head, didn’t mean shit,
knew how to throw a party,
only let the blue-eyed girl pick the music.
Sometimes when we were cruising,
stoned and silent,
her blue eyes fixed on nothing ahead,
she just started to cry.
Mr. Blue would hand her a tissue
and play “Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes.”
I would keep driving,
usually nowhere,
usually find somewhere
to pull over,
get in the back,
sweat up the seats,
get Mr. Blue jealous,
take that urge out on each other
as if we were being forced.
The Red Wheelbarrow Poets 