Preliminary Sketches: Philadelphia

“I saw a friend from growing up who’s been living in L.A. for about twenty years, and I heard him say, ‘I’m from L.A.,’ and I said, ‘No, man, you from Philly. We don’t give nobody up.’” —Khan Jamal jazz vibraphonist Fish-man comes with trout and fresh crabs: “Live! They live crabs! They live crabs!” Bars called “Watutsi.” “Pony-Tail.” A dark green suit, a banded hat. The gentleman buys pig’s feet and papaya juice. He looks like church. Another man, down Spruce Street, says, “Yeah, California’s beautiful, but I ain’t got no people there, so I came back. I raised a racehorse. Trainer says he’s mean, but I say naw, naw. That horse just alive.” Which way to walk down these tree streets and find home cooking, boundless love? Double-dutching on front porches, men in sleeveless undershirts. I’m listening for the Philly sound— Brother            brother            brotherly love.