Poem: Chet Baker Since ‘88

A poem about Chet Baker

No more Sundays for Chet Baker, not
since ‘88; I play Chet Baker records on
any day of the week but often on a

Sunday — Chet in Milan, Baker with
50 Italian Strings, Picture of Heath, It
Could Happen To You — there is a joy

to every breath, and heartbreak just
under each line. Nothing could save
him, least of all himself. I love listening

to Chet Baker on Sundays, gloomy,
misty, and wise. Devastating, and
beautiful. The dream somehow still

alive; the world a better place with
his quiet, thoughtful noise seeping
through. Chet Baker on a Sunday

since 1988.