WEST POEM 20: THE BOB HALL SHOW
I have a lead covered with rhinestones and at the end of the lead is a piano and bass.
They're playing a boogie and the rhythm
leaches into me, takes over my muscles makes them so relaxed I think they've taken
a package holiday to the Canary Islands.
When I shuffle along I could easily be mistaken for a dancer, a salsa not a ballet dancer,
and when I talk I pause after 12 bars
and nod my head as Bob and Hilary pump out behind me Barrel House,
Jammin' the Boogie and others tunes
I've no idea what those are called but they're probably boogies
(not to be confused with the ones
that have taken up residence in your nose, an evil spirit, a small truck used to carry
coal or taking one more than par in golf)
I've grown used to the sounds but other people look at me strangely
when I pass them in the street
with piano and bass on a rhinestone lead. I like having the sound of traffic
drowned out and it's useful to have somewhere
to put the shopping (especially the heavier things like potatoes and milk)
but Bob tells me off if I try to put anything
under the lid of his upright and Hilary thinks a double bass
shouldn't be decorated with carrier bags.