Thursday, March 31, 2011

My Jazzman

A young man whom Paul roomed with on Suffolk Street in downtown Manhattan contacted me today. And though his email is most welcome, it made me think of My Jazzman even more.


My jazzman                                                                       
beat it out
on the mighty eighty-eights,
played those riffs,
tapped his feet
bent his head
down to the keys,
felt those sounds
on his fingertips.
Yeah, he was a hot man
on those eighty-eights.

But all too soon
his bag grew dark.
He went down,
deep down.
My jazzman
played the blues,
lost that spark,
closed the lid.
And, yeah, you got it right,
quit the scene.
laid himself down
in that bone yard
for the big sleep.
Yeah, for the really big sleep.

3 comments:

Dara said...

This is so beautiful. Might be my favorite of yours. xoxo

Madeline Sharples said...

Thanks, Dara.

Ella or Ingrid said...

Beautiful und moving, Madeline - thank you. Ingrid