Cantaloupe Island


I last saw you at school
when the boy played
Cantaloupe Island.
On a trumpet,
with tape accompaniment.

The rolling bars of
This Hancock tune:
tinny and bright,
the sound-system not quite right.
Spread across our waiting heads.

You were given an award
by some person in authority.
And forgive me, if I mis-remember.
Because time has robbed me
of everything but this Jazz.

All that matters is that I have it,
fixed forever in my head.
The day, the time is dust.
But there you are:
standing nervously at the podium.

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