Swing

If, up early,

an hour no jazzster

never did see,

my son & I—

he’s three—

jump up to accompany

Mister Charlie

Christian on his six string,

listening to Swing

to Bop (Live), a recording cut

long after midnight—

my son plucky

on the tiny tourist

toy guitar his big sis

brought back from Fiji,

tapping his feet

while I rake

the plastic strings

of my ancient, resurrected

racquetball racquet

that showed up lately—

strumming the sun,

the morning

into being—my son

stopping to chase the dust

we can suddenly see

in the bright now falling—

his skinny legs

jangling—you’ll

maybe understand,

later, when he runs in

& asks,

Daddy,

what’s jazz?

I just point at him

& laugh.