By Emi Sharples
She, with her curls placed perfectly in an updo, divine,
a doll, pretty woman, head-turner – alluring, luring them.
Everyone’s eyes beheld her; she, the apple of them all,
her name in every song: she, her, she, oh she.
Uptown girl walked downtown, her pearls
gleaming, smiling, stunning. Dipped in
and out of cafés, travel agents’, department stores;
she laughed and gushed about her dream
destinations – Zanzibar, Vienna, New York –
the pianist’s eyes darting, pen scribbling on a notepad
as she strutted past.
She, the face you can’t forget.
Her pout hummed in the key of C#, mulling over
a melody, looking like a million bucks,
noticed by two square black frames. Watched her,
traced her expression with a blunt pencil,
tipped his fedora, left –
glass half empty on the bar.
Definitely legato; she mused,
bristling at the breeze coming from the open door.
She wanted more.
It was Moore who sang the blues; she fed him
lines of cobalt, navy,
cornflower, royal, her voice treacle,
sticky on the keys, fire,
searing in the buzz of the strings.
The brass played her in as he sang,
mourning her departure.
She was bold as love; little wing; foxey lady.
She blew the melodic gale that cried
Mary,
her breath coming short
but true.
Hammered on with his right, strummed with his left
as she confessed: take anything you want from me.
Her name lay used on the page, scrawled beneath the letter ‘F’.
A rainbow like you, he wrote,
the rose-coloured tinge hanging in the air,
dissipating, as their dinner lay
half-touched around him.
And she watched. And listened,
hearing her voice, her words, her mind.
But she watched still –
still,
pushing down thoughts of picking up a pen and
Featured Image: Edward Hopper – Nighthawks