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
Stopping and going.
The music would not have felt right then.
But when he stopped at the last light
He slid the disk from its sleeve and put it in
And rolled down the windows and the sun-roof back
And cranked the volume
And when the light turned green, Coltrane wailed
And he soared.