breath
kissing the nape of your neck,
back when it was easy to be
at least two places at once.
PEPPER
If you were alive, Art
Pepper, I’d collar you
as you stepped off the
bandstand. Last notes
of “Softly as in a Morning
Sunrise” fall between us,
a hint of Africa
still inside your alto.
Someone wants to blame
your tongue on drugs: If I
found out some white broad
was married to a black guy
I’d rave at her in games
& call her tramp, slut,
whore. Did you steal
the Phoenix’s ashes
listening to Bird?
I’m angry for loving
your horn these years,
wooed by the monkey
riding you in L.A.
as if changes in “Mambo
De La Pinta” could be
rounded off to less
than zero. Words
you tried to take back
left blood on the reed.
SATCHMO, USA
Dear Mr. Satchmo,
I’m on the other side
with “Tiger Rag” & “Way Down
Yonder in New Orleans”
on the turntable, a heart
drawn on the soles of my feet.
Here, in the inner sanctum,
I see you toting buckets of coal
to Storyville’s red-light houses.
You are a small figure
raising a pistol to fire
at God in the night sky,
but when I turn to look
out at the evening star
your face is mine. You
are holding a bugle
in your first cutting contest
with fate. From back o’
town to the sphinx
& Buckingham Palace,
to the Cotton Club
& soccer fields in Africa, under
spotlights with Ella & Billie
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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