He didn’t play Coltrane until he was out of the city.
Till then he would have felt too confined
Windows up, roof closed, traffic all around
All that white noise from the A/C.
All that stopping and starting.
The music would not have sounded right then.
Coltrane has to have room to breathe
Has to have volume.
But when he stopped at the last redlight
And saw the long, forested hills stretching before
He slid the disk from its sleeve and put it in
The machine clicked and hummed as it digested
While he rolled down the windows and the sun-roof back
And cranked the volume and waited
And when the light turned green, Coltrane wailed
And he soared.