Sunrise over cemetery.
Mid-City, New Orleans.
March, 2014.


Only words.

New Orleans, you slay me. Sitting on the porch, quiet listening. November sunlight. 70 degrees, a breeze. Birds, dogs, children. A neighbor walks up and down the next block playing, practicing the trumpet, hidden. These moments are not rare, yet they always hit me right in the gut, up to my heart, and yes, I nearly cry.

Setting the scene

It’s Sunday morning.  I’m watching my city move.

From the 6th floor, watching it rise.

A slight breeze rustles the palm trees.  A nurse, in colorful scrubs and red Crocs, hair half-tinted a reddish blonde, walks down the street singing a gospel tune and the radio quietly sings along.  Traffic is moving, like waves on a concrete ocean, trailing ribbons of muggy exhaust.  Cloudy, with tolerable early humidity and a 100% chance of broiling by noon.  It’s 9am and the methadone actors, clad in dirty black and grey, have taken their places, slowly limp-shuffling up the street.  Disappearing, only to be replaced by a kid, clad in clean black and grey, counting his money.  A couple, freshly showered, dressed in crisp white and khaki, crosses to the bus stop.  And on the corner, where a boy was shot, older men amble to the corner store, for coffee, for cigarettes, for….

Nearby, a leaf blower loudly, uselessly moves the dirt and broken bottles from the dead boy’s invisible memorial.