Madam in Red

by Jasmine Gage

 

Over on Central

there’s a jazzy joint, the Rhythm Room,

where the drums take your hand for a dance,

where the boys make you wobble and shake,

where the drinks tease your limits

and the sax steadies your feet.

Yet, you always lose your footing

when you see her—that dazzling woman.

​

Tempo comes to a simmer

a deep ebony complexion,

dim lights reflecting like diamonds shining.

Head to toe—a body-hugging crimson dress,

a deep line over the valley of cleavage.

She saunters by—direct contact by the eyes

eye to eye—simple man, to a siren,

words unspoken; enough has been said,

Madam in red.

 

Dressed in his finest, but she sways along

hips matching the thump of the drum

fingers appear empty—no claim, no baggage.

Iridescent like  heaven

garnet at her legs,

wine on her lips,

a dangerous woman she is

Madam in red.

 

A voice of a rose,

so proper and prose

no wonder he hasn’t broken away.

infatuated with her brown, oval face

thick, black-coiled twists,

twisting his heart strings.

He could get a feeling,

one that was hard to miss,

could he seal it with a kiss,

Madam in red?