McCoy Tyner

 (1938-2020)

Once

in Berkeley, smoke like Bay fog lay

over heads of cool-hip-jazz-club-clientele &

waitresses slivered through tables/bodies/chairs,

kept drinks coming, ice and glass and liquid held aloft &

Mr. Tyner

--he hit the mthrfckn keys

so hard one time strings

popped & whipped  like snakes out

‘the belly of the grand dark

piano

& the percussionist had some

mojo stuff hanging from racks—

bones, steel tubes, feathers—

all

humid and scratchy and knock-talk

click-back bicker-bock-a-zone

sounds, & McCoy was rippin and roarin,

working the gift

out

of Keyborderland. And the horns. It was a big

marrow-filling, ear-enlightening night. Outside

after encores:

cool, misty Berkeley. Had a look around

to see which way the karma blew,

got in the ’67 Camaro, drove back up EYE-80

to plain brown-cow Davis, college town,

brain

humming like the lowest pianoforte

E-note pedaled through the measures.