By Gwendolyn Brooks
Weary blues
Creeping up through the floor,
Creeping up through the heat.
Blues creeping on up
Through my window;
Screaming that a man’s
been murdered,
Or that a woman’s
Been left alone,
Or that children
Have gone hungry,
Or that—
I feel my soul grow
Thin,
Listening to that blue
Thing.
I need warmth.
I shall build
A very small fire.
I shall smell
The creeping smoke.
I shall hear
The creeping flames
Say to the weeping logs:
“Be warm.”