Lazy jazz wafts through the
air as thick as the sludgy water
of the Hudson river
as she ascends thirty six steps and
stops on the landing
part way to the third floor
blowing like a tired horse
but planted like a stubborn bitch

The trumpets swing
and she climbs each step slowly,
her hips bending like half steps
sauntering the dirty halls
as though they were lined with red velvet�
Music halls�
Yeah.

She peels off each layer of clothing,
another of the day�s worries stripped:
A green peacoat with a curry stain,
Blue and white scarf of the losing team,
Unseen bra and underwear set especially
twirled and thrown across the room
like a burlesque dancer
hips still swinging with those trumpets

she shimmies under her covers
and slips
into sleep
far away from the twenty first century
into jazz:
Sparkling dress and rubenesque women
coffee skin
glossy hair
and crimson lips crooning
for the city that exists
in the subway system
and in the walk-ups on the lower west side
of shiny faced girls
looking for men with five o clock shadows
and hooch to share.