Ode to Jazz

by Chris Jeong /

An enchantress from the stars is who jazz is

a fierce lady who’s never liked squareness

She can be found holding a set of matches

setting cafes ablaze in velvet flames

She has the grit of the coarsest sandpaper

enough to expose the flesh to the frailest pink

Frolicking within the sweat and the tears

of those performing on the hazy stage

The notes, harmonies– everything–  smell of

her smoke, her scent, which fails to leave the room

But you also feel her gentle, soothing palm 

on the forehead of the lovesick, young artist

The secure bebop of her footsteps on the stage

as she passes by each diligent musician

She will weave textiles with the lushest hues

of endless blue, green, and dandelion yellow

Sure, sometimes she might spiral, but in the end

she will always stack fresh sheets in the closet

and make sure no small groove is left unstraightened

No matter how many suspicious souls whisper

that the whole thing might collapse on their heads

Her visits lie in the dampest and dankest

She bends the plumber’s dense, rigid pipes

and works calmly in strength and tension

She ruffles the painter’s brushes and

faintly waltzes in its bristles and hairs

She is a fresh pot of coffee for everyone

after a long, laborious day at work

When jazz has come and gone in the evening

our hair remains ruffled but our souls intact

While jazz herself eagerly fidgets, armed

waiting to fill the room again with her sweet musk.