Drunks sing violent harmony, threatening fabulous destruction
on the street outside my bedroom window. I fall asleep, in love
with the melodies of their broken sculptures, ragged as
busted beer bottles, searching for a tune, come to eat the city,
a city without you & all the poorer for it, lying awake alone.
Choruses of geezers baying to get into a backroom bar,
Howlin’ Wolf singing ‘You’ll Be Mine’, Slim Harpo doing,
‘I Got Love For You If You Want It‘, shaking dust of pornbroke
guitars to the groove of a drummer with gone eyes as a skinny thing
slinks across an empty dancefloor, looking back across a shoulder.