She hangs down at the juke joint
where cotton pickers now strum
guitars, and battered voices fill rooms
with past pains.
Smell that? Southern food
only to remind you of home
but she don’t stop,
moves her body so elegantly,
shaking away that struggle,
her cracked feet covered
in expensive shoes.
Sweat beads trickle through
her kinky well-kept hair,
beauty at its finest.
Louis Armstrong trumpet sings
Of what they’ve all lived,
hot as the South’s sun,
but they still keep dancing,
blues healing hearts,
breaking loose the prejudice
that tamed her.
This is where they forget
yesterdays, live today,
and go home to tomorrow.
In this juke joint they have dreams,
bending but never breaking.
This night ends here.
She holds her coat close,
strutting home humming
for a better forever.
You would have thought she was free.