Scat Queen

(Scat- The musical kind) Written at my local jazz bar, in very messy handwriting.

Swaying in satin.

Singing in whispers.

She preforms as background sound in a social bar.

My breath is in beat with the cellist’s fingers,

thumping his strings,

keeping his eyes plainly affixed to the Scat Queen’s face,

as she wines on in the pain of the soulful song.

A piano joins,

sending sweet smiles across the performers lips.

The Queen’s four inch metallic diamond shaped earrings,

leave stains in my eyes.

She screams out praises of limitless conjunction.

Tiny claps ring out at the end of the song.

Low light lingering in every corner.

There are people talking over the musical interlude,

as I sit and sip my bubbled filled drink in suffering.

I’m starting the get restless in this rolling chair.

Choker pressing against my airway,

a stiff joke. — to be fair,

I swore to leave a bit past 10,

but this might just be the perfect time to talk to a stranger,

as we all sit in the silence.

I’ve been pretending not to feel the presence of the man

who moved to a new chair just mere moments after I sat in mine.

Curly hair and strong shoulders,

deep and mysterious,

looking ever so alluring,

in the electric candle light.

Just how much courage would it take to talk to that stranger,

sitting over there?

Dimples ablaze,

I’m gasping for air.