Everyone Still Alive Is Young
No one ever called this city the Big Easy when
we lived here a couple of hurricanes ago,
on some street long forgotten.
Life wasn’t then and still isn’t easy.
We had a deal: I ignore any stains
on your shirt, you pretend to look away
if our waiter approaches, Visa card
in hand and hesitates before speaking.
Were we laughing a little too coarsely?
I would ask, as she collected plates in silence.
But didn’t our chandeliers burn bright red
before the storm extinguished it all,
and chairs swung away
at your approach,
like a chorus line,
the rat-a-tat-tat of
of long red nails tapping
disapproval on the countertop.
I hope I wasn’t one of them.
These gifts I leave you:
A warmed-up glass.
Pair of candles for the next storm.
Softly, Louisiana rain.
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