Mr. Chester’s Jazz Club

JAZZ NIGHT SCENE

crimson light floods a brooklyn jazz club on the corner of 112th and 10th.

women drag disobedient partners onto dimly-lit dance floors,

unsuccessful at prying drinks from stubborn hands, a layer of gin coats the floor.

the slap of sunday shoes on the tile die down as the night drones on. 

dancers kick off their shoes, forming a jumbled heap in the corner.

a downpour of musical notes rains down on beaming faces.

beads of sweat form on glistening foreheads, 

reflecting the traffic lights from the bustling street outside.

inside the club everything is in motion, yet it feels as if time comes to a stand still.

the owner, Mr. Chester himself, rhythmically pounds on cracked piano keys, 

his foot a steady heartbeat, guiding the music along. 

worn saddle shoes contrast the psychedelic carpet of the stage.

south side blues nurturing the soul and dancing thick in the air.

faces warped from the heat of the commotion and heavy intoxication,

edges gelled with perspiration, and afros dense with life.

brick walls donning drunkenly engraved initials close in,

cedar stairwells, once stationary, now sit staggered and shifting.

you stumble outside and find a somber Mr. Chester in the doorway,

leaning against posters of scantily-clad women and surrounded by smoke.

he hands you his lit cigar.

the wintery night is bitter and sitting on this cobble stone street corner, you find peace,

your vision blurred by the neon sign that reads “the red club,”

your breath, slurred and hot.