The Pope had not been infallible long
when he ceded the sax to Satan. Still,
to doubt him ex post facto would be
unforgivably Protestant.
And it doesn’t
take much imagination to conjure
a vision of Old Scratch wailing away
under a window on St. Peter’s, Pius
entranced when that sultry sound
drifts in, lifts him right to the edge
of rapture before he shudders awake,
runs down to see with his own eyes,
thrust his finger in and catch his breath
before the horn can breathe it for him.
Spirit-filled, it is a Pentecostal
instrument speaking in tongues
that lifts the whole assembly
on sad tones.
It can hold its breath til
the world gets happy, thinks Coltrane
when it says Saint John.
schroeder
