Bernie McGann’s sax looks like
Roman Empire plumbing. Its notes
shake trees in matchstick groves.
Sometimes it’s a skanky garden fork
with scoops of weed, worms – gravity and squirm.
On a roll/
is on the dole. It’s the niggling pain in the spine.
Terrifies the elderly
as brass rattles down pavements between
rush and a stumble.
Bernie McGann’s sax
would growl at polish.
Old pine, ice cream highs –
outdoor jazz, obligatory early summer.
There is a conspiracy on stage
decided by a morse of grunts and finger.
McGann brushes clouds out of his reed.
He prowls above the band
waiting for the solo
like some grinning bear at a fish farm.
Plastic seating hesitates, then
a shudder from the demountable platform. Remembering.