Friday, 17 February 2017
poetry 2017 / 030
Penny played the banjo
finger-picking a five string
in the Appalachian style.
She never looked at it –
always away, away –
the loose flap of skin beneath her jowls
flapping with the motion of her arm,
her jaw clenched with the effort
of remembering the tune in her head.
She was pretty good at it;
instilled a love in me
of that hillbilly shit-kicking style
though her friends were less desirable
in their button-down plaid
and their beer-swilling southern drawls
(we're talking Dorset here).
I'd buy another banjo in a heartbeat
but it would probably remind me of the heartbreak
and the almost-broken jaw.