I gave her one of my halfway grins,
I knew what she meant, but that’s our story.
I put the blues harp to my lips and blew a sorry tune,
she sang along as always and we held the meagre audience.
We showed them, rather, made them listen to,
our story, albeit a short one,
how once we were, then were not.
All this was a long time ago,
the same voice whispered in my ear
“Hey, Limey, don’t I know your name?”
Another halfway grin and I shrugged,
who’d have thought I was that memorable,
but she, haaa, her with the voice.
I’d become withdrawn, pulled out of gigs,
people stopped me in the street,
told me to play my harp.
I don’t know what they do with their lives,
but like the poet man says,
I keep on keeping on.
There she was again, as I shuffled down the avenue,
stood on the corner, waiting for a cab.
She hailed me down instead, told me she’d missed me,
told me a lot of things, over a hotel room dinner.
Tasted like hell, like anticipation,
soon we replaced the plates.
She tasted like the cheap wine,
but I didn’t care.
Muttering something underneath my breath,
we fell into the hotel bed.
Clean white linen, clean peach skin,
we wrote on each other’s souls.
We had a revolution that night,
we changed whole regimes,
and we won the war without arms.
I picked up the harp again,
that very morning.
I played to her; she sang to me,
the crisp morning air reverberated
sonorously with our song,
again and again.