Blues

"Why would you write of that girl you met in the concert,
And not me"

London simmers in July,
With all the rage of a bluesman
Hard done by a lover. Searing days
Morph into sultry nights, I see bodies
Swaying to soul, swing and funk,
Clinging to each other in a Shoreditch bar.
My eyes drift
From the barmaid to the doublebass
And back again, jousting with a few other pairs
En-route. Sometimes I sway, most times, fail to hit the target.
My mind, though, is terribly still,
5,000 miles away. Or closer.
On my mobile phone.

I don't want to leave the bar, not yet.
But I am alone. I am tentative, and
Have beer on my clothes.
I feel like having a smoke. I remember
The ash tray a stupid girl got me from Spain,
Knowing that I never smoke.
I am lurching in the road towards home, tempted
To lie down, to never reach,
When I see your reply to a text I sent
Two days ago. I call you. Suddenly, two days
Does not seem like a lifetime.
There's a swarm of memories in my head,
And honeyed love in your voice. The wee hours of morning,
Are still hot, but more temperate. I take refuge in you.

"Got my mojo working, but it just won't work on you
I want to love you so bad, I don't know what to do"

"Let's talk tomorrow", you tell me.
I submit after a bit of persuasion. Tomorrow
Never comes. Tomorrow is a promise,
That has "broken" written over it the moment it is made.
Intoxication with love makes one take that lightly.
"The thrill is gone", may be, but
I ain't free from your spell. SOS, I cry,
But somewhere between flirting
With alligators and beaches, 48 hours pass.
Perhaps, 48 is the new normal.

"Will text when I reach home"

Home, suddenly, doesn't feel like one.
London feels lonely already, and it's
Not even winter yet.
It is 5 a.m. on what looks like
A Sunday, colder than a cold heart.