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 a 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