Jazz Poem by Craig Morgan Teicher

It's not the idea of collective improvisation I like,
not the show of instrumental virtuosity,
not the hipster life. And jazz isn't my history.
No, when the tune is really going, when horns spike,
dip into and slice the melody, when the drums
kick the rhythm deep and the bass is walking
and you hear the wooden click before the E-string thrums,
I love that, without any words, these people are talking
like they can say exactly what they mean
because they never have to say it.
Rather than labor to construct a sentence, they play it.
How fun! O, to play the piano, to let my thoughts careen
instead of getting stalled in speech. Talking takes so long
and never helps. I wish Brenda and I could fight in song.