West Bromwich Blues (1969)

Late night.
On the yellow light-streaked streets
I hear the thumping
bass & wailing harp muffled
from the basement of the
Cassa Bamboo.

The Cassa Bamboo,
by day the haunt of
frothy coffee drinking
philosophers, down at
heel philanderers & permed
escapees from Cammie & Cadman.

Now closed like a mouth, in
near darkness, it throbs
like a great heart.
giving out its rhythm to
the empty street
to the wet pavement.

Across the street
shoulders hunched, moving
between pools of sodium light
a beautiful (to my eyes) exotic
Asian girl, walking
in time to the music.

Not for her the neat arrangements,
or customary future.
tight jeans, afghan coat, streaming
jet-black hair, swept back by ringed fingers. this is '69
her spirit is finding its wings.

There's a brief eye contact,
a shy smile, blues fades,
drizzle remains.
I never did get to learn
the name of that blues
(or see her again)