Sing to me a love song

Tantalizing. Like the ruby-red lips of his first
love Darlene Jones, the night streets sing.
“Down home blues, down home blues,” ZZ Hill calls.
The guitar wails. The blues man's husky voice
cajoles cool, invites him to enter red brick walls.
Steam heat moistens the bodies cluttered there.
Flickering candlelight shadows waving dancers
swaying away their troubles and warming their
throats with deep-brown bourbon that soothes
drawn muscles and looses blustery talk.

“Down home blues, down home blues,” ZZ Hill calls,
and the calm lullaby of the slate blue house
with rolling green grass, private-schooled children,
wife sweeping the home clean, and dinner warming in the
stainless steel double oven, retreats into the chorus.
Like a lover, the song invites, beckons, coaxes him
to join the celebration. And, weak to the lure
of night's freedom, he joins the dance once more.

© Cheri Paris Edwards 2007