In a Coltrane Kind of Place TodayHere Where Coltrane IsSoul and raceare private dominions,memories and modalsongs, a tenor blossoming,which would paint sufferinga clear color but is not inthis Victorian housewithout oil in zero degreeweather and a forty-mile-an-hour wind;it is a well knit family;a love supreme.Oak leaves pile up on walkwayand steps, catholic as applesin a special mist of clear whitechildren who love my children.I play “Alabama”on a warped record playerskipping the scratcheson your faces over the fibrousconical hairs of plasticunder wooden floors.Dreaming on a train from New Yorkto Philly, you hand out sixnotes which become an anthemto our memories of you:oak, birch, maple,apples, cocoa, rubber.For this reason Martin is dead;for this reason Malcolm is dead;for this reason Coltrane is dead;in the eyes of my first son are the brownsof these men and their music.
Michael S. Harper
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