after david hajdu’s article in the atlantic monthly ….

warm in my apartment 
bed should be a vale of tears
but dawn is dawning
birds are chirping
and wynton, you have been the strong back
a sista needed.

let me tell you
not what i asked for,
let me tell you
what i got.

we come from a long line of greeting the dawners
happiest when the night starts at eleven
and bedtime is six
but you know, wynton,
the world
mamas
friends
bosses
don’t understand a need for dead of the night
don’t know that jazz hits at four a.m.
that the gates of heaven swing
in that stretch of time when the moon ain’t quite visible
iyanla, yes,
night is for making medicine
and reading of you,
wynton,
hajdu’s magic 
i sipped my tonic:
vision of you, wynton,
speaking power
speaking love, family, determination
reverence
not an ondaatje poem for you
wynton
cause black reached across land mass to chastized coast
and angeleno that i am,
i knew suddenly, simply,
nocturnal was my vibe
no explanation
no looking back in horror 
it don’t need to be about the past
it can be
wynton
that we are wired different
bird music
our lullaby.

i have been up til seven,
again,
my aunt would not approve,
but there,
in new york,
resting in the seat of jazz power
a complex man
nocturnal
night rider
knows what two a.m. means
frees me
at last
to greet the dawn
cracked smile and coffee cup
and pen.