and aligns rhythms to
the cool jazz which aligns the walls
in this room.
ivory keys glistening, begging to be touched
sheet-music dance to the notes
and beats, clefs and unheard baritone.
smooth octaves ranging into
goosebumps prickling the heated
skin of stage lights and
amps powered by electricity.
she sings. a moment filled with
Nina Simone and Billie Holiday
of Strange Fruit and
the Other Woman.
a hushed crowd awakened by
systematic beats and warm breath
kissing the microphone hips
synchronized in rhythm as dim lights
give birth to slow dancing.
the effervescence of alcohol and tobacco
fill the room, signs of swayed physiques
and temples glistening with sweat.
but she moves. moves still/enraptured
and captured the moment of
toothpicks hanging from full lips
and pink blossom makeup blushed
intertwined with cherry red lips.
epitome of craving and wanting
the kind where empty stomachs are never filled
late night chicken wafts the air
and hot grease becomes insatiable mixed
with the feeding of warm liquor
in the veins. Insatiable.
where one brush of the lips
become a kiss
the kiss gives definition to bliss
and bliss gives birth to a new day
spent skin to skin touched under cheap
it is a new day.
awakened by the golden rays
bounced off of Grandma's curtains
lace detailed and hand crafted,
the peek in the shadows produced
a new figure. he comes. half-full cup of
java brewing awaking the air with
a thick breeze of freshly ground beans
of Arabica nature.
a crease in the bed
he sits. mug in hand
a soft olive branch of extension
for the unforgiving look of messy hair pulled
and hot combs to re-make the up-do.
throws on Benny Goodman
and bops head. Rhythm.
from the stage to the room
to the dawn from the midnight glow-
this jazz thang Baby-
is all she knows.
For Scott Joplin.