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