Diamond Mine

Last night your face swirled between

an alto sax and a lead guitar in a jazz club

in London, somewhere amongst a beer

and a Bloody Mary, your spirit hovered

over all, then fell to the ground before me.

What a waste, you would say, pointless

reminiscing of yesteryears, the endless

race to fit into a world which rejected me

many moons ago: you were quite right,

memories come uninvited, but welcome.

Now this train rattles my tired hand,

but below the after-glow of remembrance

of last night’s reflection, I’m defeated

as a heavyweight lacking energy to raise

his gloves to defend his already broken face.