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Poem: Lounge

On the stage under hot lights
Sits the old grand piano
Older than her great grandparents
Who would’ve never made it in the door
On the club where she stands now
Leaning against old grand
Hair falling down to her shoulders
Body hugged in a cardinal red dress
Her lungs filling with whispy smoke
With her red lips making love
To the mesh of the microphone 
Swaying to a song of her own design
A rapt crowd is listening
But all she sees is shadows
Leaning into to hear her sirens song
About the pain they’ve out her through
Words lost on melodic notes
Up here like on the street 
They feel the emotion and ignore her
At least here they’ll know her name

Copyright © 2021 TJS Sherman All rights reserved.


3 thoughts on “Poem: Lounge

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