Bird

The baby cried, but the wailing was a soothing
Jazz melody in E flat, a sound associated with
that baby for thirty-five years.  A Bebopper,
a jazzer, a revolutionary, a Bird!  He could
make you fly like no one else.  But the scars,
the scars he received while crashing after flying
too high, higher than the birds should ever go.
Every breath was a sigh, a craving for what he
could be, if only…

The baby cried, this time the Bird flew without
any help, for that baby was his own.  This time
the baby crashed for him, her life instead of
his, and his life depleted with every step
after that fateful day.

The baby cried, for a man with the Baroness.
For a man who hated hospitals and wouldn’t go.
For a man who finally played one last note
of good bye.  For a man whose dying rocked the
masses, and the masses not believing a word.  The baby
cried for the Bird, the legend, the man,
the Bebop sound, rolled into one.

black african americanmusicfree verse

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