STEVE CROSS
Jazzed

Mellow notes float through the night.
Skirts swirl in the smoke-filled club.
Amber light slips down the staircase.

One of the girls coaxes a boy,
sweating from primitive rites,
through the yellow haze into the rooms above.

She is a maestro
directing his heaving body in swells
of rhythm.
Classic crescendo falls away
to limp notes from a twitching
horn.