Dorm Room (Cornell, 1968)

The boy next door, who is black and a senior

And therefore knows the world and wants

To be a drummer, has cranked the stereo again—

A Love Supreme.  You cannot hear Elvin Jones

Riding the kit as if a sleek sports car delivery

Truck cheetah.  Nor Tyner’s hands as if noon light

Were rain hammering the concrete—storm clouds

Of sun.  You can hear some of Coltrane, disconnected

Squawks, a groan, but not the prayerful majesty

As he walks the dark water of Garrison’s bass, the

Ostinato as if a range of mountains had stood up,

Locked arms, and were pacing left, right, then left

Again and this would never end.  And you

From your side of the wall listening,

Thinking you do not want to hear this.

~  ~  ~

Tim Hunts publications include the collections Fault Lines and The Tao of Twang and the chapbooks Redneck Yoga and Thirteen Ways of Talking to a Blackbird. He has been awarded the Chester H. Jones National Poetry Prize and twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He lives, oddly, in Normal, Illinois.