To Dinah Washington

I have heard your voice floating, royal and real,

Across the dusky neighborhoods,

And the eyes of old men grow bright, remembering;

Children stop their play to listen,

Remembering—though they have never heard you before,

You are familiar to them:

Queen of the Blues, singing an eternal song.

In the scarred booths of Forty-Third street,

“Long Johns” suck in their bellies,

On the brass studded leather of Elite-town,

Silk-suited Bucks raise their chins …

Wherever a man is without a warm woman,

Or a woman without her muscled man,

The eternal song is sung.

Some say you’re sleeping,

But I say you’re singing.

Unforgettable Queen.