chet

  
 
   
   
you were the perfect  
man for the perfect    
time for the perfect    
music in the perfect    
decade  
   
dressed in cool,  
wearing shades,  
tricking the day  
into thinking it  
was night  
   
a model of hip  
with a voice of  
blue smoke  
   
that black and  
white photo of  
you sitting in a  
studio with back  
leaning against    
the wall and leg  
propped across  
a chair...  
   
looking bored in  
the moment,  
detached from the  
sadness that sang  
its song in your    
ears with tongues    
of angels    
   
Joshua had nothing    
on you as your horn  
brought downs the  
walls of our heart  
   
but it wasn't    
enough:  
   
the music...  
   
the sound..    
   
the love...  
   
all blew away like  
sour leaves on a  
lemon wind  
   
poor sweet boy  
practicing    
needlepoint on  
your arms  
   
you became a  
casualty of your  
own life and  
left jazz a  
grieving    
widow