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by Christina Gleason

There's standing room only, and barely that
where we're pushed to the wall, the door swinging
and letting in a breeze behind us. Fat
patrons bursting in their seats are singing
along badly and we're watching backs of heads,
waiting for Lizz Wright, piano, drum set,
bass. Her voice is golden, the beat's like lead-
solid and dark, and everywhere. It gets
our feet first, then my fingers on his hips
tapping bass lines hooked around his belt loop
under the folds of his new shirt. He slips
his hand into mine and I feel him droop,
tired and soft, our knees weak from standing-
the hour's over and we're done dancing.


Author's Note: approximate sonnet; named for the Montage Grille in Rochester, NY

Posted on 10/30/2003
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason

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