Sunday, July 29, 2018
Jazz Club. by Ann Christine Tabaka
The lights dim
a horn wails
smoke and whiskey fill the room
A voice like silk
from some long past era
Feet s h u f f l e
across the floor
Hushed voice conversations
a slice of heaven on a paper plate
High notes - low bows
the jazzman walks off
claps and whistles followthe lights rise
Ann Christine Tabaka has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in Poetry, has been internationally published, and won poetry awards from publications. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and two cats. Her most recent credits are: Ariel Chart, Page & Spine, West Texas Literary Review, Oddball Magazine, The Paragon Journal, The Literary Hatchet, The Stray Branch, Trigger Fish Critical Review, Foliate Oak Review, Better Than Starbucks!, Anapest Journal, Mused, Apricity Magazine, The Write Launch, The Stray Branch, Scryptic Magazine, Ann Arbor Review, The McKinley Review.
Every knock I here I think it’s you left your over night bag on the floor half zipped open like you were here the bed is a lonely place...