New Orleans

Rich chicory coffee cafes

Stores overflowing with feathers and masks

Tonight the untamed masquerade party

On wild Bourbon Street’s drunken pavement

Stuffed with Po’ Boys, Cajun, Creole

Jazz and Blues scream from open bars

Purple gold and green beads tossed from

Festooned balconies, flash freedom

Oh, liberated city, Katrina’s victim

Raw survival truth of flood and blood

Hot and sweaty- dance on, dance on

To the rhythm of your people’s spirit

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Lady of the Morning

On a broken street in New Orleans

we make a wrong turn

just a mile from the Quarter’s hub-bub

map in hand, we become lost tourists.

Desolate pavement, tires bang in

deep potholes left from the hurricane.

Quick, a sharp u-turn, away

from the wrong side of town.

There, like an apparition,

you plod in the puddles,

shirt open, large hanging breasts

sway with your early hangover.

Cheap silver heels glint

in your dark hand, the other pulls

down the mini skirt wrapped tightly

around your cold, heavy body.

Our eyes lock in an uncommon embrace.

What can I do? Money? A ride?

What do I know of you?

You may already hate me,

For what I am, at least on the outside,

is not you, yet, we are the same woman.

Before I can tell my husband that you exist,

that you need, we are gone.