On The Way Home From The Jeffrey Lewis Gig...

With a dozen fresh bagels tucked under my arm,
I wend my way home from The Jeffrey Lewis & The Jitters gig.
Flames burn outside Hawksmoor’s exalted Christ Church.
Hoxtonheads queue for ale outside the notorious Ten Bells.
I’m happy walking the soused streets of Spitafields tonight.
I’m in no rush to reach the tube. I’m in no rush to get to my bed.
The last time I saw Jeffrey Lewis play, he started with a joke.
The last time I saw Jeffrey Lewis play,
he brought along his painted guitar
and his girlfriend Helen
and his brother Jack and his Uncle Louie too.
“Professor” Louie Lewis, no less. Who provided support.
And things were no different tonight I’m glad to report.
The joke, the girlfriend, the younger brother and the uncle;
all were present and correct. Why change a winning team?
The last time I saw Jeffrey Lewis play,
he appeared to be thinning badly at the crown.
Truth be told, his hair looked like it’d been falling out in clumps.
Clogging-up the drainage system on the Lower East Side no doubt.
If anything, Jeff’s male-pattern baldness
has escalated since the last time I saw him play.
Has he ever considered plugs, I found myself wondering?
Or cosmetic transplant surgery?
Or some finasteride? Minoxidil? Mane-For-Men?
Chinese knotweed? Aerobics? Or a little Syrup-Of-Figs?
Or maybe just a bar of soap, a little hot water
and some good old-fashioned disposable razors?
I wend my way past Rough Trade’s new flagship store,
where earlier this evening I chanced upon an impromptu
live performance from Alt-Country freak-a-Billy Jim White.
I wend my way down a sidestreet where once I bought
a tinfoil carton of brown Liberty Cap magic mushrooms.
Back when it was legal. Back when there was a loophole in the law.
It really wouldn’t be too much of a diversion
for me to wend my way a little further Eastwards;
past the blue door behind which dwells the girl I still adore.
Maybe I’d find the courage to take a deep breath and knock.
Maybe I’d find her at home, and maybe, just maybe,
she’d invite me in for a while from out of the rainclouds.
We could slice the bagels in half, pile them up,
and place them carefully in the freezer compartment.
It really wouldn’t take me too far out of my way at all.
But the two of us haven’t spoken in such a long long time.
And it’s been even longer than that since last we communicated.
I’m happy walking the soused streets of Spitafields tonight.
I’m happy for the drizzle to fall upon my receding hairline.
If I'm lucky, it might suddenly wash me into a storm-drain,
along with the rest of the flotsam and the jetsom
and the chancers
and the have-nots
and the oh-so-might-have-beens.