Oh Etta, you are not done singing.
Not in the shower, not anywhere.

In the world inside my stereo
it is 1946, and I can see you, still
lit by the orange sundown
holding a small glass of bourbon
in your languid fingers
wrist bent in soft
surrender to its weight.

You are leaning back
into the florid afternoon, Etta,
and I say tell it girl,
tell us all the bad things
beauty’s made of.