Why, they just up and die
And leave harmonicas all over the place
Reeds drying up
Blues harps in glove compartments
And kitchen junk drawers
Marine bands asleep on bookshelves
Or on top of radios
Harmonicas on the workbench in the garage
The end table beside the cat-clawed couch
And what about that harp left in the pocket
Of the jeans on the floor beside the bed?
Think about all those blue notes
Comatose behind black holes
Waiting, waiting, waiting for a breath
To blow them back to life.
Who will bend those blue notes now?