The cocktail umbrella surprises me.
Its scalloped orange and blue pierces
the lemon slice angled on the glass.
The barman pulling pints smiles.
Everyone’s making an effort tonight.
Enter the women in glitter tops, it’s legs out
although summer, if it ever was, has gone.
Autumn doesn’t only happen in New York.
We shimmer here with jazz and beer.
Tiny Tiffany lamps glow yellow and red.
Drenched latecomers shake like dogs.
The storm from the West has come.
Chairs are lifted to be nearer the stage
as the double bass looks ready to rip
but waits while the piano player’s dad
totters up to the mike with his dicky heart.
We know how much this means but ‘Hey!’,
as Dave says, the raffle’s the important thing;
the club must survive, ‘Keep music live!’
Then Dad leans into a barstool with Georgia
on his mind, a little off key, but sublime.
Sally on sax has played in bands like this
since she was a kid. Her ‘My Funny Valentine’
makes hearts ache but not a thing should change.
We’ve only just begun, we want to stay out late,
misbehave. It’s cold outside, the world can wait.
Phones are held up as everyone’s back on stage
for ‘Let the Good Times Roll’. And we do.
Oh yes, we do. We certainly do.
