Saturday, July 26, 2014


artwork: ralph murre

by Jackie Langetieg

I don’t want to go to Chet Baker’s house

Let him come to me, lean his back against
the scene of ancient Chinese mountains in my living room
Let me serve him Metaxa brandy in a water glass

Don’t let the smoke leave the room––nothing should fly out
on the wings of notes coming from his horn, his voice his hands
words left hanging on black clefs of minor chords

I’m loose on the sofa, Robe slightly open hoping he’ll notice
baby grand ready for his touch
like the counting of my ribs, each finger placed surely
on the steps of my spine.

I feel his concentration on the music
I’m just a body temporarily in his way for tonight
The old serrated trees on the panel behind me sway
and fantasy fills my head. The music trails off and he joins me

We speak little, lie to each other, talk of insignificances
Soon dawn is opening the curtains of night and he drives off
leaving me lost in the smoky night music still at play in the room.

~ first published in Norbert Blei’s Poetry Dispatch