Queen of Soul

Cigarette smoke and the stench of pretension. Blues touches the air with saxaphone and trumpet. I sing on stage letting convection sweetened with desperation roll off my tongue. A dimly lit ballroom lined wall to wall with white people. Not a black in sight less they serving the white people. I let my melody was over them In a hidden plea for movement. My fingers slide from key to key, the music grows till skat dit di tat tat, Its done, we sigh in relief. The white people clap, and the black people leave.