Keep hold on the standing bass
and *** *** ba-dum us to a slow dance,
because the two step’s too quick
and I want to hear some sad trumpet improv;

The perfect impression of us in love.

It’s too humid here,
I can see sweat race down well-worn wrinkles
eroded into Ms. Carla from 30 years of cabaret.
She sways on the microphone,
while her deep voice hangs in the air,
fragrant, and ready to stifle the pairs
mixing love and lust beneath her stage

They move,
sweaty and close,
***** and dark,
familiar-passionate
slow,
but furious.

Another evening of Jazz and ***.

So this night passes,
a melody in my head
leading a world within my arms
as we rock,
ba-ba-ba-dummed by the bass.