Yellow Torchlight and the Blues

Yellow Torchlight and the Blues

Inside Saturday night shines dull
on yellowed walls
through beer-fumed tobacco-fog.

Cramped in a corner
the drummer's invisible
but the beat's real
driving below
the pit of conversation.
Musicians appear as blind watchers
sensing their way through songs
viperous eyes all but closed.

She's torchlit blonde
in a slimming widow-black.
Blue eyeshadow creeps into folds
it was carefully brushed over.
Lipstick bleeds into fine lines.
Only the sax would know her age.

Her cigarette-scarred voice
packs emotion into facile rhymes
as she sings
achingly
alone.

Suddenly time's gained an hour
she's faded from view
the bar shuts
walls sweat condensation.

Outside autumn lights a flare
and through the empty backstreets
The Floating Harbour
ripples blue accompaniments
to Billie Holiday's Gloomy Sunday.