Coltrane Mowing The Grass
Working up to the edge of my backyard,
southeast corner facing California.
The mower spurting down the slope,
weeping for oil, I catch
sight of the
chocolate brown short haired
cat from down
the street
dancing along
the fence. Coltrane is
playing on the disc player
from my open kitchen window.
And I turn off the mower and
sit down to watch the cat intently,
my body full
of its supple moving, and the rest of my senses
consumed by that
other cat, that dead cat, Coltrane.
My wife is yelling something at me from the porch
and our dog is barking at
the cat, but the cat dances
on, and that genius cat, John Coltrane,
wails and wails on and on. I go up on my porch to take
a break, my wife hands me an ice cold beer, and I
seriously consider hiring the kid next door
to finish mowing the grass, as I sit down, turn the music up,
close my eyes and throw the world
the finger.