Musically, black boys are jazz.
The first violin in an orchestra, the concert master
Trumpets and saxophones, pianos, and drums

Beaten like percussions, struck like piano keys
Made of shiny brass, ivory, or gold.
They remain fearless, always concert ready

They play life with a single mouth piece.
A rare harmonic cadence
A progression of chords that concludes pieces of song

Musically, still sounding sweet after continual use.
Applause continues when they enter the room
Fearlessly unapologetic for their song

They know music is more valuable with age.
Becoming men, black boy songs tell stories
Filled with smoke filled clubs and fast women

Drenched with sweat from jam sessions with women they don’t love,
I still don’t know what I’d do without jazz

Riffs become mature.
Altered scales, back beats, breaks
Eighth note patterns when he walks

Alto, tenor or soprano
Chords in parallel with the melody when he makes love

Then one day, the black boy becomes old and withered.
Musically, he is placed in the stack of other dusty records of a collector where he sits, Until he’s discovered again, and they say he’s priceless.