The closest thing I heard to jazz 

In my west Texas town,

Was my dad telling the story of the choo choo train.

I had never heard a train.

We lived on a peanut farm

So far away from everything.

But some nights my dad would tuck us in 

With a lyrical musical tale.

Not every night you understand,

But certain very dark cold nights,

He would come lie by me and my brothers in the bed,

And sing to us the stories of the choo choo.

He had grown up in a place much closer 

To the highway and the railroad track,

In a time when music was morphing,

And he heard the choo choo and the radio

Everyday as a child.

I could tell by the way he made 

The chu- chuchuchuchuchugga,

The clackety-clack,

And the bell sound-ding ding ding,

That he missed that old choo choo.

But when he made the lonesome sound 

Of the whistle going by,

I knew it was a deeper ache,

And much more unforgivable.

But way back then, I couldn't understand,

How lonesome one can be without

An old friend, without a childhood,

Without even a train to go by.

Jazz.....

Reminds me.

-jenn