Her eyes blossom like a fresh pink bud in the sweet spring

She slinks from her casket like a black cat becoming resident of the shadows

Her fangs emerge gleaming like white sand belonging to paradise

She is ready to feed

Every Friday I sit on my balcony.
At 8:00 PM the show starts.
The dark slim dame makes her way
through the stage with shadow-like steps.
Her figure starts a Tchaikovsky composition
while I patiently sit silent on my chair.
A sudden play of the violin enters the stage,
its sober sound accompanied by a high-pitched
clarinet.

Fingers on a harp are heard subsequently,
transforming the night into a frozen wonderland.
The moves she makes are psychedelic, leaving
shadowy smoke trails to follow her body
as she slides across the stage.
Sly smile present.
Her veiled feet tap lightly on the floor with
the grace of black swan in a lake.
Nothing stops her.

Finishing her first act, she moves away
from the stage and changes the track.
Deafening bongs of a cathedral bell
overwhelms the small venue.
A rifting Fender and the banging of drums
quickly give the rise of the next performance.
The dark silhouette returns, her feet tapping
harder while she flings her arms and drops them
for a windmill strum.
Never the conformist, the star moves to the
upper stage.
She lets out a lurid scream,
promising black sensations
to the crowd as she rifts away hell’s bells
for the night.

The mood changes, mellow tones take us
to the past.
Soft vibrations of a saxophone fill the smooth air.
A double bass follows suit, signaling the rest
of the band to start the show.
My darling is waiting.
She grabs the ribbon microphone, her black
sequin dress glistening across the ball room.
Ruby on her lips, she puckers them and
blows a kiss to the audience.  
It’s April in Paris tonight, my lover knows it.  
“Duh-be-duh-be-dee zoot zoot zu.” her jeweled
petals sing while she flings her index finger back
and forth.
All eyes are on my jazz girl, she is Fitzgerald
come again on a snowy canvas.

The song comes to an end and she flawlessly
bows for a standing ovation.
From my booth, I mimic clapping hands.
The wary neighbor giving me the stink eye.
What would she know about fine art?
The silhouette makes her way out of the room,
her each step breaking my heart.  
I say my goodbyes, pickup my binoculars from
the metal railing and wait patiently
for her next show.