I Took the Next Few Days - Lady Getting it Together

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[Spoken Word]

I took the next few days to pull myself together.
Fasted.
Sat with my thoughts.
Wrote and rewrote that letter to Jackie until the pages got soft around the edges. Twenty drafts, maybe more.

Poetry Night was coming up, so I tried to lose myself in the work — polishing the mic stands, straightening chairs, laying out the sign‑up sheet, ink pens, and notebooks. Busy hands keep the heart from leaking, or so I told myself.

But every time I stepped out back for air, Consequence Street Alley reminded me that Coffy Town was shifting.

SarahSarah had The Upper Room under full renovation for her all‑white Gospel House Brunch — the one she expected Club Surrender’s artists to “reach across the aisle,” or through the wall, as it were, and support. I’d heard the rumors, but I hadn’t pictured the parade.

All day long, workers marched up and down the alley carrying rolled‑up carpets, white pillars, crushed‑velvet tablecloths, seat covers, and buckets of calla lilies, white roses, baby’s breath… and clouds. 
Yes. Clouds. 
Sparkling puffs of cotton hung from fishing line and floated down the alley beside them, like heaven couldn’t wait to touch down, and my spirit didn’t know whether to bow or run.

Lucy was on the North Side again — that’s what the rumor mill said — and folks whispered that Lu Surrender was sick. So it would just be me and the poets tonight. I didn’t expect the starving laureates to fill my tip jar with Coffy Coins. I decided to close my station down and listen to the poets bear their souls.

Inside Club Surrender, Missy was already onstage, rehearsing her new routine. Funky John had the Coffy Shop Band tuned tight, snapping orders with that cool‑as‑vinyl confidence of his. Missy was giving attitude, not heart — and I could feel the tension in the room before he even opened his mouth.

I stood in the doorway of the VIP Parlor, watching Missy — the artist I thought of as a daughter — holding my letter to Jackie, the child I gave to her father to raise. There was something akin to pain in Missy’s eyes when she finally saw me standing there.

Coffy Town, and my whole world, tilted on its axis.
I was just trying to keep my balance.

2184/7500

[Spoken Word] I took the next few days to pull myself together. Fasted. Sat with my thoughts. Wrote and rewrote that letter to Jackie until the pages got soft around the edges. Twenty drafts, maybe more. Poetry Night was coming up, so I tried to lose myself in the work — polishing the mic stands, straightening chairs, laying out the sign‑up sheet, ink pens, and notebooks. Busy hands keep the heart from leaking, or so I told myself. But every time I stepped out back for air, Consequence Street Alley reminded me that Coffy Town was shifting. SarahSarah had The Upper Room under full renovation for her all‑white Gospel House Brunch — the one she expected Club Surrender’s artists to “reach across the aisle,” or through the wall, as it were, and support. I’d heard the rumors, but I hadn’t pictured the parade. All day long, workers marched up and down the alley carrying rolled‑up carpets, white pillars, crushed‑velvet tablecloths, seat covers, and buckets of calla lilies, white roses, baby’s breath… and clouds. Yes. Clouds. Sparkling puffs of cotton hung from fishing line and floated down the alley beside them, like heaven couldn’t wait to touch down, and my spirit didn’t know whether to bow or run. Lucy was on the North Side again — that’s what the rumor mill said — and folks whispered that Lu Surrender was sick. So it would just be me and the poets tonight. I didn’t expect the starving laureates to fill my tip jar with Coffy Coins. I decided to close my station down and listen to the poets bear their souls. Inside Club Surrender, Missy was already onstage, rehearsing her new routine. Funky John had the Coffy Shop Band tuned tight, snapping orders with that cool‑as‑vinyl confidence of his. Missy was giving attitude, not heart — and I could feel the tension in the room before he even opened his mouth. I stood in the doorway of the VIP Parlor, watching Missy — the artist I thought of as a daughter — holding my letter to Jackie, the child I gave to her father to raise. There was something akin to pain in Missy’s eyes when she finally saw me standing there. Coffy Town, and my whole world, tilted on its axis. I was just trying to keep my balance.

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