Four in the morning, pavement Blues,

a single small, hurried cigar

becomes a second,

longer lasting, what the Hell

moment of pleasure in the dark

quiet Bootle street,

a realisation that I am not

responsible for a stranger’s happiness

despite wanting to see

every stranger smile,

four in the morning

pavement Blues,

a missing guitar

but the harmonica pulses

and sends out a beat

to which only the deaf

appreciate and fondle under their bedclothes

when their wife is away, dreams

of music, once forgotten,

dreams, the pleasure

of the dark and constant,

for even the pavement holds life,

not footsteps but the memories of blackened feet.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017