Crescent City Blues

 

Crescent City Blues

 

I could see the Mississippi from my window

as it marched slowly to the gulf. The blood

of the heartland was pouring into the sea

and I was drinking scotch on the 46^th floor.

The end of the day, the end of the week

in another city and another hotel room.

I refreshed my glass, spun the amber and ice

with my finger as I moved back to the window.

 

The sorrowful whistle of a river boat resonated

off the glass in low tone that seemed apropos.

New Orleans is sad from this vista, like most

party girls, she doesn’t look quite as alluring

in the sober light of day. As I looked to the north,

to the skies above Lake Pontchartrain, I could see

the hoary clouds of a thunderstorm. Intermittent

lightning scratched the air and illuminated

the squall’s dark tentacles as they fell to the lake.

 

The sun was retreating to the west pulling a curtain

of darkness in its wake. There’s an emptiness in the

night when you are alone in a strange city, it climbs

into bed with you and whispers tiny lies in your ear.

Two glasses down and half a bottle to go, while below

the heartland just keeps pouring blood into the sea.

 

SMG