Seattle,1943. He's just ten. <br />The family's poor beyond hunger, <br />thrown out of Chicago by Al Capone <br />for making too much money. <br />When it's dark and quiet, <br />they break into an armoury <br />for - pie. In the dark <br />he sees a piano he thinks it's called, <br />plays a note or two and knows <br />this is what you'll be doing all your life. <br /> <br />Later, after years of playing <br />stuff like Debussy with Ray, <br />he gives Frank a jazzy edge, <br />later again, a thriller <br />for Michael <br /> <br />He says, don't wait <br />for the paralysis of analysis, <br />listen to God's whisper, <br />and if it gives you goosebumps, <br />go with it. <br /> <br />It's said that truth <br />is stranger than fiction. <br />I think not: it's sweeter, for it's <br />nearer the bone, <br />sweeter as the sweet notes <br />that he hears<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/that-jones-boy/
