Harmonica
Her tunes were vamped through lipstick, played to show The child I was just how to suck and blow Enough to turn a tinny doh-re-mi Into a broken-hearted melody, The quaver in her stream of sopping notes A dole queue in its Thirties' overcoats Whistling through nostalgias of gaslit Chromatics proletarian with spit.
Her elbows planted on her bony knees Moved up and down to breathy harmonies, The busker in her picking up by ear A smoke-filled, wheezy-chested atmosphere, Her mothballed coat and man-sized walking boots Shook with coughs and giggles, red-veined hoots, The racket stopping so she could begin Another tumblerful of Gordon's gin; On every birthday calling to rehearse A sixpence just discovered in her purse Then drawing breath to cup each phrase between Big chip-nailed hands orange with nicotine.
The cancer caught her quickly, left her grim, The price, she said, for years of keeping slim; A different world then, one that had no cure For a life so unconventionally pure: A game brunette, a card, as bold as brass, Who dragged herself downstairs, turned on the gas, And died between the lethal suck and blow Of brick-vents in her basement studio.
John Levett
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