Walk through town.
Tall buildings casting shadow
under the winter sun.
Traffic queues up.
Someone’s got the window down,
making a phone call,
and you can hear them half way up the street
telling someone
they need to get cream
for those haemorrhoids.
Few folk laughing.
Walk past the pub.
Looks like a good crowd in.
The band is cranking out
Sharp Dressed Man.
I’m either in a time machine
or I’ve found the only other folk in 2026
who still love Billy Gibbons’ guitar tone.
I step inside.
The guitar player is ripping out a solo.
A few folk dancing near the front.
I find a spot by a pillar
and watch them tear through
the end of the song.
Then the guitar and bass drop out
and it’s just the drummer,
holding the groove.
The band look at each other.
The bass player laughs.
Then they lock in.
A few notice.
Heads move in time.
Most folk keep chatting.
The band turn their backs to the crowd
and lock in with each other.
The drummer looks serious,
pulling those faces
only drummers pull
when they are really feeling it.
A woman beside me starts dancing
and bumps my shoulder.
She turns, smiling.
I smile back.
The song finishes.
The crowd cheers and
the band take a break.
I head back out to the street.
The shadows have grown.
The sun is sinking.
And I’m moving again.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 