For Jazz

          Django Reinhardt

All the records and the music being sold
In Paris, in New York, did not impress
The billiards champion of this little town,
Who fished the river, loitered chez Fernand,
And when he played guitar would somehow hold
The strings with crippled fingers. He could care less
They played him on the radio, renown
Means little to a manouche artisan.
Booked in Carnegie Hall, he showed up late,
Delayed by some drink or poker game. Such things
Have no importance in the sermons that are read
At Sunday mass at Samois, where there wait
Musician kin at altar side, while there sings
The arc of melody he left in all our heads.