Jumping Off a Clef
(In the early hours of 13 May 1988,
the body of legendary jazz trumpeter
Chet Baker was found lying on an
Amsterdam sidewalk, two stories
below his hotel room window.)
What happened, Chet?
I’d like to bet
you threw it away.
Everything happens to you.
Your December grey
drowned you in May,
so you fumbled through
to that Otherwhere,
but it wasn’t there –
just cold sea air.
Que paso, Beau?
I’d like to know
what did it this time.
Maybe a flame from the past
in a minor key
on the Zuider Zee
hit with such a blast
that you tried to run
from the starter’s gun,
but it can’t be done.
What to conclude, dude?
Did you get screwed
by dealers again?
Why were your feet made of clay?
Such tales to tell
of the wishing well,
but you had to pay.
If it starts with teeth,
it becomes a wreath
on the bricks beneath.
So, drugs or drink?
I’d like to think
you really got high.
You finally learned how to fly –
not on the dope,
but some species of hope
that just happened by,
the sublimest tone
that was ever known,
from some far out inner zone.
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