December 2011

Regarding Dad

By Beth Schorr Jaffe
Back
dreams of sweet men,
dancing to
Miles’ insistence,
it’s warm baby.
The ballet of jazz,
flailing forward,
arms beckoned in,
legs ran to leave,
too fast,
I just knew
tomorrow never came.
Ignoring
scolding spouse’s rally,
I sit rounded,
look backward,
if only at dusty
trumpet blues,
then decurve,
bribe the maestro,
play once more.