I still see it clearly
if I close my eyes
while listening to
Coltrane or Parker's
frantic strains.

Its home is
massive
and silent as a church,
and there it hangs
unrepentant.

Huge,
it engulfs you
as you sit on pew-like benches,
head swaying
along the splatters
and the strokes.

Blacks, browns,
whites, and grays,
dancing,
fighting,
leading,
following.

Like Pollack was,
it is,
a frenzy of life,
a cautionary tale
of endless possibility.