‘It’s always the  feeling, not the cash; 

In Iowa, mother didn’t leave a bean to me.

I met her just six times, give or take.

It’s the feeling, not the cash. Ben’s down south,

Louisiana. Thereabouts. Brother, is he lost, always

was. Bill’s Jill’s related to the glass people. St Helens.

I played flute, the high notes, the low. Now,

the crack dealers have gone and buried

the next door neighbour under their deck.

I don’t know who to tell. They sell their weed

down the arcade, I didn’t know about Crack.

Three black men. I should have laid down

the law and gone to Music School. I was that good

back then, and that story i scribbled down

in one long write, sent back by the Faber people,

and why? It was good, but I gave up then. Blood

meant nothing to us. I can’t remember where I live,

and neither can Ron. So I live alone. That way

my radar  is intact, homes in. It’s not the cash,

it’s the feeling, every time. Louisiana. And before that?

That high note, I hear it in my sleep, breaking glass.’