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“Que Sera Sera”

A. Van Jordan 
In my car, driving through Black Mountain, 
North Carolina, I listen to what 
sounds like Doris Day shooting 
heroin inside Sly Stone’s throat.

One would think that she fights 
to get out, but she wants to stay 
free in this skin. “Fresh,” 
The Family Stone’s album,

came out in 73, but I didn’t make sense 
of it till 76, sixth grade for me, 
the Bicentennial, I got my first kiss that year, 
I beat up the class bully; I was the man.

But for now, in my head, it’s only 73
and I’m a little boy again, listening
to Sly and his Family covering Doris’ hit,
driving down I-40;

a cop pulls me over to ask why 
I’m here, in his town, with my Yankee tags. 
I let him ask a series of questions
about what kind of work I do,

what brings me to town—you know
the kind of questions that tell you
this has nothing to do with driving a car. 
My hands want to ball into fists. 

but, instead, I tell myself to write a letter 
to the Chief of Police, to give him something 
to laugh at over his morning paper, 
as I try to recall the light in Doris Day’s version 

of “Que Sera Sera”—without the wail
troubling the notes in the duet
of Sly and Cynthia’s voices. 
Hemingway meant to define
courage by the nonchalance you exude
while taking cover within your flesh,
even at the risk of losing 
what some would call a melody; 

I call it the sound of home.
like when a song gets so far out 
on a solo you almost don’t recognize it, 
but then you get back to the hook, you suddenly 

recognize the tune and before you know it, 
you’re putting your hands together; you’re on your feet—
because you recognize a sound, like a light,
leading you back home to a color: 

rust.  You must remember 
rust—not too red, not too orange—not fire or overnight
change, but a simmering-summer 
change in which children play till they tire 

and grown folks sit till they grow edgy 
or neighborhood dogs bite those not from your neighborhood 
and  someone with some sense says Down, Boy, 
or you hope someone has some sense 

who’s outside or who owns the dog and then the sky 
turns rust and the street lights buzz on
and someone’s mother, must be yours, says 
You see those street lights on don’t you, 

and then everybody else’s mother comes out and says 
the same thing and the sky is rust so you know 
you got about ten minutes before she comes back out 
and embarrasses you in front of your friends; 

ten minutes to get home before you eat and watch some 
of the Flip Wilson Show or Sanford and Son and it’s time for bed.  
And it’s rust you need to remember 
when the cop asks, What kind of work you do? 

It’s rust you need to remember: the smell 
of summer rain on the sidewalk 
and the patina on wrought-iron railings on your front porch 
with rust patches on them, and the smell 

of fresh mowed grass and gasoline and sweat 
of your childhood, until he swaggers back to his car,
when the color of the day and the face 
behind sunglasses and the hands on his hips 

come back gun-metal gray 
for the rest of this rusty afternoon. 
So you roll up the window 
and turn the music back on, 

and try to remember the rust caught in Sly’s throat— 
when the song came out in 73, 
although I didn’t get it till 76, 
sixth grade for me, the Bicentennial; 

I got my first kiss that year, 
I beat up the class bully; I was the man.
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