The Blue Chicago Club
Shawn Mak
Loose-tied men escorting red-lipped women
decked in silk dresses and white string pearls;
Men in gray felt hats and women with gelled kisscurls
milling in an August night,
waiting to get into the Blue Chicago club
near the Chicago river.
The musky smell of cigarette smoke mingles
with the sweet perfume of some ladies' necks;
The condensed syrupy air, dense with sweat,
gently wraps around and intoxicates me.
sweeping me away,
in the Blue Chicago club
near the river.
In this packed joint, I see
the gay, blithe faces of a largely black crowd,
mostly lost in the lazy wails of golden saxophone sounds:
a mass of people dancing, some swaying
to the music, others snapping their fingers, tossing
their hair, tapping their feet, clicking their heels, their eyes
closed, their heads thrown back.
It's a regular party scene, here
at the Blue Chicago club
near the Chicago river.
The heavyweight chanteuse lets out another purr,
lulling and seducing with her rich, golden-honeyed voice,
which drips into my ear
like melted candy.
I love her dangling gold earrings which catch the wandering rays of light,
casting dancing patterns on her heavily-rouged black cheeks.
Her sweaty floral dress clings to her big curvy body,
accentuating every sway and every jerk,
every shake and every heave
of her pendulous bosoms.
With a flirty bat of eyes, she winks right at me—or so I think—
as I ponder how much more magical a night can be, here
at the Blue Chicago club
near the Chicago river.
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