That Jones Boy Poem by Michael Shepherd

Seattle,1943. He's just ten.
The family's poor beyond hunger,
thrown out of Chicago by Al Capone
for making too much money.
When it's dark and quiet,
they break into an armoury
for - pie. In the dark
he sees a piano he thinks it's called,
plays a note or two and knows
this is what you'll be doing all your life.

Later, after years of playing
stuff like Debussy with Ray,
he gives Frank a jazzy edge,
later again, a thriller
for Michael

He says, don't wait
for the paralysis of analysis,
listen to God's whisper,
and if it gives you goosebumps,
go with it.

It's said that truth
is stranger than fiction.
I think not: it's sweeter, for it's
nearer the bone,
sweeter as the sweet notes
that he hears