Miss Mae Remembers
Written By: Douglas Curry
Design by: Xander Bowen
Miss Mae daydreams in the summer breeze
of some yesterdays long ago although
they seem as clear today as one of those tv's;
pretty mens with their perfume and powder
not sissies, no; loafers... sheiks
with their high-draped pants
and long-toed shoes... slicked down hair
gold-chained Elgins and polished nails
gettin' that Beale Street fast-track money
faster than they could spend it
pass a gal a sawbuck for a song
a gold toothed smile and a wink for a date.
She sees rough, beefy-faced bulls
watching with steely-eyed menace,
pistols tucked, billy clubs ready,
scarred and chipped... Saturday night law
beckoned to alleys by girls for pleasure
living large on illicit treasure
the pimps' and bootleggers' bounty
costs of doing business, beneits of the job
Miss Mae remembers the small crowds
when you came in as Ma Rainey left town,
taking with her all their money and their hearts;
but huge crowds for her - and Bessie's - closing shows.
Country folk with brogan shoes;
bandy-legged gals with love for sale
musky mens tryin' a give it away
Sat'day night in Black Bottom
Miss Mae recalls...
Bessie, singing opera for a laugh,
and spirituals on Sunday mornings...
whilst her dykes, pimps, rounders...slept
And then there was a two week stint
When Mr Calloway needed a high yaller
to high-step and "Hi-de-Ho" at the Cotton Club
O' Harlem... how you jazz me; you do make me high...
Oh... the times... the parties, the crowds.
Gold-toothed blues singers dressing fine,
cool jazz cats in dark cars taking dope,
passing reefers to a back seat full of 'ho's
Miss Mae smiles just to think...
of her big money sugar daddies;
there was at least one in every town
from Biddle Street to Lenox Avenue...
before the wars...
before so many started to move
George Karger/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images
before the pickets, the marches, the riots
before things got so complicated
Sittling on a trash can top
watching the Harlem children
sprout, grow, disappear...
Miss Mae remembers her song...
"They call me Maybe Mae
and I just come to play
but, treat me right, Daddy
Maybe Mae might stay..."
And the clouds blocking the restless sky
are as gray as Miss Mae's scattered braids
that hide the rememberings of an old woman
who no one knows now, her reverie lingers...
Struttin' her stuff, high steppin'
in those greasy, noisy joints
they were for 'colored only' then
and only for them, singing her blues.
Doug Curry
May 3, 2017
