Chet Baker
he
shot
not some
rocker who
fell onto needles
as occupational hazard
but addict cut sharp like mozart into that rare sphere
full blown alive in sound and time patterns—fix famished voice cool and trumpet wrapped bassline
holding back the junkie who shared his body and soul
until tunes and airs crescendo
flesh welcoming in
smack, coke, ice
coda
to
death
