Saturday night in with the blues.
A Memphis Session
on a loop, the last dancers
in the smoking bay,
casting out their dues
for another day at work,
for another sorry pay.

The chancers are out tonight,
groping *****
on the tube, the last train call
to another city,
of broader sight and brighter light,
with a silk-lined wallet
and discarded winter shawl.

I can stay inside with the blues.
Let it wash on me
like pre-worn jeans, copper leaves
in an October street,
death forming in aesthetic hues,
to colour the abandoned quarry,
to soften the falling
of my feet.