With a good ten days to burn,
I figured it would be a mortal sin
if I failed to pay a visit
to the site of Chet Baker’s death,
perhaps even end up in jazz hell
if I did not stand for a while
beneath the hotel window
out of which he was pushed
by a jealous woman, or simply fell.
You might ask about “jazz hell.”
I never gave it any thought
until I made it up just now.
I don’t like the sound of the jazz violin.
It always sounded like a violinist
had wandered into the wrong
recording studio and just
started playing along with the others,
only slower and not as well.
So my personal jazz hell
would have to be an all-violin band,
each solo lasting eternally,
so only one violin would
ever improvise while the infinite
number of other violins
would comp in the background
and play as improperly loud
as the constant ringing of bells.
All of which leaves me glad
that we finally did walk there
in a light rain and did stand
on that unfeeling pavement
below that fatal window.
We even had our photograph taken
next to the plaque of Chet Baker,
blowing his trumpet in bas-relief,
eyes shut tight, just so we would have a story to tell.