Pollinator

^{For James Hunter Tarpley 
The Angel of Grandin 
1933–2019}

                 I

I always addressed you as Mister, 
“Mister Tarpley.” This desire propelled 
by my need to not evoke the familiars  
of “James” or “Jimmy” or “Jim” 
names you probably heard most of your life. 
This, my opportunity to look, to take notice 
of how sound arabesques from ear to eye, 
to knowing nod, to tilting chin, to Black 
man on the crossroad—the things you saw.

Thought you naïve when I questioned 
how you came to your Grandin post. 
The adjective “ubiquitous” comes to mind, 
a word I now toss into the village arena 
of this poem with its world of letters—scaffolded 
a street lantern straddling the latitude and longitude of space/place  
the raptured crowd of agitated walkers and watchers.

You reminded me of Cairo’s elegant bawabs, 
the brothers who knew the pulse of city thoroughfares   
spawned from  Corniche el Nil  apartment doors to asphalt  
corners. Directing errands like long-robed Sufis spinning 
oud strum where each string is a season, a tonal tongue.

Lonesome, I was looking for guidance 
as to how you learned to straddle that gaze of race 
The limited looks that give us neither  
quarter nor measure. Not Numinous  
as to how wholly we are.

I wanted to ask “Did they treat you well?” 
Did they know you wore heavy combat green 
to keep you warm during a raging Korean storm? 
Did they bother to inquire where your people come from? 
Mende? Ibo? Yoruba? Fon? Buffalo Ridge Tsalagi? 
Were they curious as to how you arrived?

Sentinel to Grandin traffic, gold and amber maple leaves 
weighted coffee smells, kids who street board swirl over  
side walks and driveway jams, legion of bugs bunny stutters 
Saturday matinée steam morning 
cartoons market shoppers’ arms 
loaded with produce and pizza 
bicycle spoke spinner to barking dogs  
and let them lie. 

Holding back, I held what I wanted to say.  
You saw a clear way through, whispered 
you believed in the goodness of all people. 
Unconvinced, those words buzz through me 
open up space for my speculation. 
I hoist them up now, my personal banners. 
Unmoored. Unsteady. Unassured. 

                 II

Ask me where the music went?  
I hear it now, long gone like some Blue Ridge bound 
locomotive along rhythm’s clickety clack 
where the song arrives 
in a great gasp of steam,  
in a spectacular sonic blur

Ask me where the song went? 
Does it reside in a spine of keys, a door we step over 
or into, turbulent Atlantic ocean view, barnacle-poxed rudder. 
behind loading dock or field hungry plow, 
the errant shoelace your brass statue bends over to tie?

Gone, long gone like the old steam engine whistle 
that bumps along the walls of this valley. 
Gone, long gone 
Like the salt licks leaking into the soil 
Like the culling 
of the seasons 
that we witness through mind and hand. 
Like the moment we recognize 
as the angelic hum of our lives.