Jumping Off a Clef

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.

 

Author's Note

In the early hours of 13 May 1988, the dead body of legendary jazz trumpeter Chet Baker was found lying on an Amsterdam sidewalk, two stories below his hotel room window. Did the drug dealers who’d smashed his teeth come back? Or did something else occur?