If This Isn't Jazz

an altered scale to slap and tickle
a dilettante's Muse
a passing chord to woo the flatted five
"Blue ‘n Green" to inspire a tired
guitarist who dares
to reharmonize

a contract stacked to deliver payment
when there's ice in June
white guys with accountants and
company stock
a road where the kindness of strangers
will have to do
in cities that
Glamour forgot

a Flat Foot Floosey with a gentleman's
tongue in her ear
a software Don reminiscing to the
office pack
back-lit bottles, hard surface reflection
of the aging frat boy's concern
with girls and cash

a phone, a drunk, and a beeper
as chorus
in this Rhapsody
an epic poem of romance and decay
a sunglass projection of a bittersweet
choice made long ago
to turn night into day

is the real thing
or is it fake?
is this smoke in my lungs?
or is this a lifestyle mistake?
will the New York Times say
I'm too white or I'm too black?
shall I complicate the rhythm?
shall I give the money back?
are you confused?
are you amused?
with my blood,
and your booze?
if this isn't Jazz,
it will have to do,
until the real thing
comes along

if this isn't love,
it will have to do,
until the real thing
comes along