Long-jumping years and rattling through my own tin can speakers Your voice enters the room In a tone I could not have imagined For a man who, I have been told, worked in a library his whole life; Ignoring beckoning gestures from circles of men Within whose groups you could not have belonged Less.
Looking like a subdued Eric Morecambe Perched by your bicycle and a black and white And-red-bricked wall Your voice holds the room, and me, in a paternal tone; Carefully balancing lengthy phrases; Stubbing them out With a sufficient pause.
The intonations of your voice, the ones by which I am so surprised, Create a rise and fall In your wry observations. Present in both the gaps and pauses, the introductions and the endings. Your early stammer is forgotten In this London studio So far from your hometown.