Driving Down a Gravel Road, Thinking About Bud Powell

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By Mark W. Jackley

the potholes
and the ruts
bring to mind
Bud’s skull,
cratered by a Philly cop
in ’45 and yet
it guarded
Tempus Fugit
and Un Poco Loco
to spill one day
like rivulets
of melted snow
in April
cortex-creased,
donkey-nibbled
hills in
morning sun,
glittering
synaptically,
defiantly,
because

         
Mark Jackley’s poems have appeared in Fifth Wednesday, Sugar House Review, The Cape Rock, and other journals.

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