Worse For Wear
I bought a pair of boots in 92.
Simple black leather,
steel spur holders sewn on the sides.
The best 99 dollars I ever spent.
I call them 760's,
7 dollars and 60 cents a year
if you do the math.
Worn leather, broken in.
Run down at the heel.
North Dakota, Maine, Las Vegas,
New Orleans, New Mexico.
California, to the hell of Death Valley,
and always they carried me back.
Covering my feet in rain,
sliding me across the ice,
away from a rocky marriage.
Last time I saw the 760's
they were in
the corner of a lover's room,
not kicked off, not thrown,
place with care
with an address tag
tied to the spur holder.
A bootery to patch holes
too big for duct tape.
At a house in New Orleans
my boots waited,
while residents evacuated,
and the water broke in.
It didn't know their history,
just that they were in the way.
WHEN IN NEW ORLEANS
Washed upon your shores, I arrived.
However more unromantic;
Exit 265 of Interstate 10,
Now I am home in New Orleans again.
In the last glow of a red-skied sunset,
New friends and old welcome me.
Never do I feel more alive
Elsewhere than here,
Wrapped in evening's light.
Over on the grill,
Redfish slowly blackens.
Lonestar beer comes,
Endlessly mixing with stories.
Another warm bayou night falls,
New Orleans captures me.
Slowly reality floats away.
Welcome Back To New Orleans
"It's what makes New Orleans feel like home, as important as red beans and rice and Mardi Gras. It's hard to explain how important they are as an icon."
A marching band led the parade down
St Charles Street past the old oak trees
that eternally clutch multi-hued
strands of holiday beads
in their moss draped limbs.
Smiles and tears accompanied
the jazz band
leading the procession
as it made its way
with all the pomp and precision
of a notable dignitary's visit.
We didn't have floats,
or breast barring women
on balconies this time,
but green and red street cars
that slowly clanged through
another New Orleans summer day.
They wound past the Garden District,
two years after being nearly destroyed
by the killing waters of Katrina.
Slowly they rolled back into my heart
like a lover returned to me
after time and tides
conspired to keep us apart.
"The streetcars are part of the city's identity, everything from the noise, the clanging down the avenue to the lights at night."
Welcome home!
Walking Shoes
Monica and I parked in a free lot
in front of Jackson's Brewery,
a short walk from The Gold Mine.
We were ready for dancing and fun
on a hot June night in New Orleans.
I tightened my worn tennis shoes.
In front of Jackson's Brewery.
"Make sure the door is locked."
I shuffled and two-stepped around the lot
anxious to get walking.
Ready to drink and mingle,
I was a compressed spring.
A short distance from The Gold Mine,
we were really just three streets away.
Decatur to Dumaine to Dauphine.
The crooked dirty D Streets
rolled beneath our fast feet.
We kicked aside newspapers and empty beer cans.
We were ready for dancing and fun.
Kelli and her boyfriend were going to meet us
at OZ down on Bourbon so we took a quick detour.
We walked down a cobble stoned alley,
pushed through a creaky half door
and bellied up to the bar for drag night.
On a hot June night in New Orleans,
party boys swaying and prancing wasn't our thing,
so we made a run for the door.
The Gold Mine was packed with people
as we writhed and shimmied in the heat
of a small crowded dance floor.
I tightened my worn tennis shoes,
foot on the brass rail of the bar,
and thought how great this night was.
Then we followed my tired but content feet
as they wandered back to dance some more.
Waiting For Spring
Drinking black coffee
out of a chipped stoneware mug
is one of the few things you left me,
that I really care to write about.
I am thinking how Mississippi Delta Jazz,
about New Orleans, and aligning
ribbons and name tags
on dress blue uniform jacket and shirt
in anticipation of a funeral service
probably isn't the best pick me up
on a lonely depressed day.
Outside a gentle breeze scuttled snow
across the barren ground.
Fresh clouds promise an inch or two more,
although the National Weather Service,
and the calendar declare winter over.
I don't think I will be
seeing blossoming flowers
and green grass anytime soon
on my cold brown dead lawn.
Last night's Spring showers froze
as soon as the raindrops
hit the earth.
I'm beginning to think
that the coldness outside
and the loneliness in my heart
may last another season.
I am drinking black coffee
out of a chipped stoneware mug.
Heartbreak is one of the few things you left me,
that I care to hang on to.
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