by David St. John

    It was in the old days，

    When she used to hang out at a place

    Called Club Zombie，

    A black cabaret that the police liked

    To raid now and then. As she

    Stepped through the door， the light

    Would hit her platinum hair，

    And believe me， heads would turn. Maestro

    Loved it； he'd have her by

    The arm as he led us through the packed crowd

    To a private corner

    Where her secluded oak table always waited.

    She'd say， Jordan……

    And I'd order her usual，

    A champagne cocktail with a tall shot of bourbon

    On the side. She'd let her eyes

    Trail the length of the sleek neck

    Of the old stand-up bass， as

    The bass player knocked out the bottom line，

    His forehead glowing， glossy

    With sweat in the blue lights；

    Her own face， smooth and shining， as

    The liquor slowly blanketed the pills

    She'd slipped beneath her tongue.

    Maestro'd kick the shit out of anybody

    Who tried to sneak up for an autograph；

    He'd say， Jordan， just let me know if

    Somebody gets too close……

    Then he'd turn to her and whisper， Here's

    Where you get to be Miss Nobody……

    And she'd smile as she let him

    Kiss her hand. For a while， there was a singer

    At the club， a guy named Louis——

    But Maestro'd change his name to "Michael Champion"；

    Well， when this guy leaned forward，

    Cradling the microphone in his huge hands，

    All the legs went weak

    Underneath the ladies.

    He'd look over at her， letting his eyelids

    Droop real low， singing， Oh Baby I……

    Oh Baby I Love……    I Love You……

    And she'd be gone， those little mermaid tears

    Running down her cheeks. Maestro

    Was always cool. He'd let them use his room upstairs，

    Sometimes， because they couldn't go out——

    Black and white couldn't mix like that then.

    I mean， think about it——

    This kid star and a cool beauty who made King Cole

    Sound raw？ No， they had to keep it

    To the club； though sometimes，

    Near the end， he'd come out to her place

    At the beach， always taking the iced whisky

    I brought to him with a sly， sweet smile.

    Once， sweeping his arm out in a slow

    Half-circle， the way at the club he'd

    Show the audience how far his endless love

    Had grown， he marked

    The circumference of the glare whitening the patio

    Where her friends all sat， sunglasses

    Masking their eyes……

    And he said to me， Jordan， why do

    White people love the sun so？——

    God's spotlight， my man？

    Leaning back， he looked over to where she

    Stood at one end of the patio， watching

    The breakers flatten along the beach below，

    Her body reflected and mirrored

    Perfectly in the bedroom's sliding black glass

    Door. He stared at her

    Reflection for a while， then looked up at me

    And said， Jordan， I think that I must be

    Like a pool of water in a cave that sometimes

    She steps into……

    Later， as I drove him back into the city，

    He hummed a Bessie Smith tune he'd sing

    For her， but he didn't say a word until

    We stopped at last back at the club. He stepped

    slowly out of the back

    Of the Cadillac， and reaching to shake my hand

    Through the open driver's window， said，

    My man， Jordan…… Goodbye.