Playing the subtleties
of silence, Hampton traces,
like a government agency,
the vibes--quietly--
his wands a magic,
a makeshift. Arthritic solos
hover like a bee
above the flower, finding
the sweet center.
Two days before Easter, Monsieur
Hampton plays the changes,
offering up
songs read off
a napkin bruised with lyrics:
What did I do
to be so black & blue?
his voice wobbles
along the highway
called history,
flying home. Here.
(Leaves out the part
I'm white--inside--
because he's not.)
The band, tight, will swarm
behind & save him
if he falls--when--
The sax player stops
between tunes to dab
a handkerchief at the drool
gathering his chin.
Such
care. The mind's blind
alleys we wander down.
This is enough, just--
This is Paris--
In the Rosa Parks section,
as the drummer we met
before the second set
dubbed it, we stand
in the back
& applaud
& shout yeah
& block no one.
And I say to myself
What a wonderful world--
Dad's so excited
he falls off
the risers--& he laughs
& we laugh--
Skies are blue
Clouds are white
Sacred dark light
In which, after, they lead him out. | 
