"For Nola"

Picture rows of brass,
Black cheeks swelled full of air;
Long summer dresses spinning upwards,
Flower prints blurred by the whirls;
Bright colors splattered on floats,
Made during late-night sessions after work at wherever;
Candy and alcohol and cigarettes,
All shapes in your purple and orange marshmallow clouds
Popping out to surround the city like an ambush.

Politicians going home to
Stiff margarita sleep.
I’ve had two beers and a glass of vanilla vodka already tonight.
Wasn’t built tough enough to hold much more.

I toast to you, Garden District
And to you, French Quarter
And to you, cheesecake so soft my fork fell through you
Without anyone to catch it.

Like everything else in this muddy mess,
This is late.
And like everyone else,
I’m sorry.

Rescues wrinkled up
Like ads for bars on Bourbon Street.
Tossed to the ground and stepped over.

Helicopter blades spin like old Satchmo 78s,
Still moving static even after the record's over.

Newborns float silent, eyes open.
Self-inflicted policemen bullets barely heard.
Grandmas rock stiff in wheelchairs, covered by blankets.
Skirts torn in the Superdome,
This aquarium busting at its seams.

And this is ripped through stained teeth,
Cracked lips,
Foreign accents
Translated from cigarette breath
To Good Morning America language.

Evacuations,
Resignations,
Accusations,
Demonstrations,
Donations.


We’re all looters
From the lost and found box
That hosted my favorite vacation
With my funny valentine.

Booked a flight just after her birthday.
Only eight passengers on the plane.
A hurricane was coming, the weatherman said.
We weren’t scared.