He scratches at the keys,
the surface pain,
the itch of hurt under the ivories,
like faces, cheap with looks, failing
at a meaning of intent, like clouds
temporarily covering up,
dulling the senses of the choir
calling to a gray and charcoal King
as the man works the music
into a room where jazz like rain
washes tan and white into the blood
of the Birmingham Road, staining forever the
eyes of those staring with hearts
pumping hate, as the feet of the brave
walk the path of insults and rocks,
their souls watering hard the road with
future; the ivories cannot be silenced.
The red fire of her lipstick beckons eyes onto her;
she accepts the cloth of desire, conquering
the lust of men.
Fingers thirst at the words released from her.
Songs rich with the blood of her jazz
form rivers, drowning men, setting women
adrift in jealous seas.
The sax draws close to the satin covering
her long legs; she whispers into night.
Her eyes reduce jewels to sand.
The earth spins at the calling of her voice.