The Jazz Club

It's always three in the morning when She comes to me
where I sit looking at my half empty glass of whiskey.
The last set is just starting to flow down
and Her voice mingles with the the smoke and the sound.
Have you ever heard jazz music so fine
that it pulls you in and leaves nothing behind?
The saxophone solo, an addicting sexy seduction,
clears the path for Her hypnotic induction.
I never remember Her motives until it's too late
when I become lost in those eyes too green to contemplate.
She does Her business with me there and then,
and as the last set winds down, She disappears again.
I wonder just what I have to do for Her this time.
I wonder what instructions She has placed in my mind.
I tell the bartender on my way out the door
to reserve the same table, I'm desperate for more.

(c) 2006, william the submissive poet