by Neil Donnelly
On Dublin’s Grafton Street I pass an old
man, vainly trying to squeeze notes from
a harmonica, an upturned empty hat as his feet.
Something of that ginger-graying, bent-down
head reminds me of my Sligo uncles.
Later, when I return he is gone.
Banners Restaurant, Crouch End, London.
a 6×4 plaque proclaims “Bob Dylan
sat at this table August 1993” and when
the waitress arrives, I ask about it, but
being no respecter of reputations, she
recalls He didn’t want to eat, he wanted
alcohol. We chucked him out!
On London’s Regent Street I pass that same
old man, with upturned empty hat still vainly
trying to squeeze notes from the harmonica,
and I think definitely, definitely on my return
I will stop and talk to him. Later when I reach
the place, he is gone.
Attempting music for those who wouldn’t
stop in a world with no time to spare.
