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.