The piano pounds out tunes, with Duke Ellington at the keys,
The sax moans its jazzy song,
The trombone joins in, wishing to be included,
Bessie Smith at the microphone, the empress of the blues.

The ladies show off their dresses bright colors, lace, pearls, satin, ribbons, necklaces, purses and swaying hips, making you dizzy.

The men, all dressed in tuxedos, some with women on their arms some stand alone, smoking pungent cigars and dreaming of better days.

The flashier ones dance, heels click clacking on the scuffed floor, the swish of the Sunday best clothes brought out for Saturday night, and the rumble of talking.

It smells of sweat and alcohol, secrets buzz in your ears, guilty confessions and brash statements.

The clink of glasses against tarnished wood is loud, and the line for the jukebox snakes around the dance floor, subtley, sneakily.

High pitched laughter and low chuckles can be heard, swift scoldings and slow murmurs into the ears of strangers and friends.

Tones mingle with the jazzy tunes of the band.
Music to my ears.