The Forgotten Platfrom
On the platform severed from main line there was bench left peeling in the sun. There sat the old guitar man, with his bundle of bedding, and his worn string-less guitar. He had sat there for as long as I can remember. When I was young he used to play for money. He played sharp furious blues. He used to draw small crowds during the carnival week. I heard him play and wondered why a man with such talent wasn’t in a band. I was in my teens the day he lost his first string. The story went round the town fast, as nothing much happened after they cut us off from the mainline. The loss of the string didn’t affect his music. He recalibrated and began a different style of playing, which drew a new crowd of people. One by one, the other strings broke. Each time he adjusted and evolved into a different groove. I can still remember when he only had one string left. One string was all he needed. He made use of every note, pau...
