Poem By Brad Evans
phil walks into the bookshop,
picks up a mag from a shelf.
I tell a work colleague near me:
‘that guy is a hell guitarist! '
he looks at phil -
phil's head is thin and withered-looking!
his hands look tired and weak!
his back is shaped like a banana
time appears not to have treated him that well.
my work colleague looks at me like I'm a fucking nut.
i tell my work colleague
to place a guitar between phil's hands
and give him some space...
his head will snap upright!
his hands will attend to the strings like they would a lover's back!
and he will sing the blues
in a style
and in a way
that only rare, gifted bastards do!