Jazz Poem
When I hear jazz,
I think of a lake house
in the mountains of Pennsylvania.
I think of a speakeasy
hidden in the cellar, but
you have to get in
through the cemetery.
When I hear jazz,
I think of a curio shop
selling familiar trinkets,
a funny creature in glass,
an ancient Mayan mummy,
and voodoo powders.
I think of an eerie old mansion
whose owner recently died.
I think of glass eyes and
men in pirate costumes,
iguanas playing dress-up,
musical spiders,
a crazy gardener,
gargoyle statues, and a cemetery.
I think of a marshmallow–loving
alligator that ate a
legendary crystal skull.
When I hear jazz,
I think of miniature golf
and a prize machine with
ponies.
I think of a dead man's
lost will.
I think of a woman impersonating
another.
I think of stolen jewels and
an explosion in a kitchen.
I think of a girl whose
mother died,
left her an inn,
and now the girl thinks she's
losing her mind.
I think of a bank losing
business.
I think of paintings moving
themselves and voices from
nowhere.
I think of secret passages in
parlors.
I think of ESP teaching frauds.
