An Elegy For Charlie Parker Poem by David Cooke

I can see you sitting in the yard at Reno's
where the Mob's tight hold makes dollars spin.
You are scuffling the dust, then homing in
whenever Lester launches his solos.

Or I see you breathe at the music's source
through a taped and battered alto. Through scale
after scale you soar, so egotistical,
obsessive, chasing sounds no ears endorse.

Later on the hipsters hailed you -
Benedetti and a crew of fanatics
who, trailing wires in cellar bars, left mics
in place that hoarded every note you blew.

You had known from the start you'd never win,
even though your style became a language
for all. And Lester, too, had to share that rage,
that anger that sticks like pigment in skin.