New Orleans
Who could fill the wounds with visitations:
Father is flashing to forget
the war zone
where the police
took pictures of women
flashing their breasts on Bourbon street
dressed in drags
to hitch for Halloween drug sales
in the Quarter
hauling up their skirts.
Who could fill the wounds with visitations:
mother is drifting away from
her memories of
the drunks, the nut cases, the punks
and of the Gothic romance of Anne Rice
laying a trail from the sink
to every bar and restaurant
in the French quarter
to the music and scents
that drifted from
poverty and decay
corruption and instability.
Who could fill the wounds with visitations:
son is collapsing in tears
for remembrance of the alligators
and barred owls
that prowl swamplands
whithin the city limit
the coffee, so rich and dark
and the beignets that get powdered sugar.
All of the sudden, I remember nothing but
pools of toxic water, thousands homeless,
scores of dead, tears in mid-service,
tears turned to blood.
The beautiful red rose
New Orleans forever
drowned in Katrina,
the unkown Wizard.