Michael Monroe (12/3/76 / Baltimore, MD)
Her childhood was a cake-walking daydream,
full of lazy, summertime days and peaceful, riverboat nights,
as she imagined friends like Potato Head and King Porter.
She strutted with barbecue in the fiery French Quarter
and sugarfoot stomped through the streets of Chicago,
smiling away her puppy-love blues in the West End.
In her youth, she took the A-train to Harlem,
beneath the bustling lights of vibrant Manhattan.
She was a black beauty shining with sophistication
as she spun through the swinging Savoy,
joyfully letting a song go out of her heart.
She sang sang sang with her lover in the silver moonglow
and they danced in the dark in the elegant Rose Room.
She gave her body and soul to him boldly,
crimson passion burning as they paged the devil.
She lived easy for him in the clouds of her heart,
until he left one gloomy Sunday into the rainy evening.
She was enveloped in the smoke of her solitude
as she covered the waterfront with grey tears,
searching coast to coast for her lost lover man.
She wandered her way into a sweaty hot house,
where she injected insanity into her volatile heart.
She grooved high with her weary back against the wall,
finding confirmation in roller coaster wails of self-indulgence.
She cried sad good byes to her old friend, Pork Pie Hat,
moanin’ at the moon with desperate heartache,
collapsing ‘round midnight into a tragic heap of spent chaos.
As the autumn leaves blew through rejuvenating breezes,
she said so what if she’d made mistakes in her exuberant past,
and she turned to God and found a love supreme.
She found passionate resolution in a fiery saxophone preacher,
and went back to the chicken shack to relax in a newfound groove.
She searched for possibilities in explorations of freedom
and began to re-dream the stardust dreams of childhood,
equipped with the wisdom of a century of experience.
Comments about this poem (Jazz by Michael Monroe )
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