Moore Pope Hunter
Imagine you’re playing to the OAPs
At the Jazz in the Tuesday lunch club in Torrevieja
My father there eating his
Roast beef
Mash
Carrots
He doesn’t spill the gravy
But hears and taps his feet
He’d do that even as the citizens start at the sounds of chaos;
Birds squalling over a storm;
Running behind arrhythmia
Your music could be a joke then
I’m relishing the laughter
My father’s patient
But too old as he became
Never heard
The splutter
Only remembered
The order
Of a New Orleans
He didn’t know