Jo Stafford

11 11 2009


Jo Stafford V4BV

Jo Stafford (November 12, 1917 – July 16, 2008)

The Chesterfield Supper Club. Radio Show. Where dinner was never served. Singing tongue in cheek. A lot of coughing. Jo Stafford. Entertained. Perfect pitch. She could have played for the Yankees.

Outside in the alley. Three wise men danced a jig. Knocking at every door. Not lovers. Messengers. Crooners out of tune. The 1st Polaroid. Pornographic pictures. Of  Miranda. Uranus’s famous moon.

(Time hardly seems to move at all.)

A paramour in the closet. A letter in the vanity. Feelings both brave and lonely. A shadow stood in the corner. A stocking flung over his shoulder. Smiling. She threw an ashtray. Wondering how long he would stay.

We didn’t get married and he’s dead now. I hear it every time I tear up. Because I never stopped loving him. The interviewer wept. Moments later. Jo died. At age 90. Let’s grieve. But not yet.

Watch the fog set over the harbour. A flash of light was observed in a crater. On the moon.  Like a spotlight. On the stage. And a beautiful blond. Singing goodbye.

Sinatra stood at the microphone. A cigarette in his fingers. Some kind of disruption behind. Turned around. There stood grinning Satchel Paige. At 42. Pitched his 1st major league complete game. Took that white ball. And painted it. Transparent.

Old sailors no longer get their pants pressed. And the fleet is sleeping. In the noon day shade. The dust has settled. The war was won. And the retirement homes are run by government men. Dying of congestive heart failure. Jo Stafford leaned. Her cheek. Against the moon. And smiled one last time.

Glenn Taylor. Such a tall man. Idaho Senator. Arrested in Birmingham. Alabama. For walking through a door. Marked “for Negroes”. And Jo Stafford left us. Almost without saying a word. And it wouldn’t have mattered if you had heard.



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