The sidewalks of New Orleans are trying to kill me
Root-buckled, storm-subsided, cantilevered concrete
slabs reduced to rubble,
reaching up to break my ankles and send me flailing.
A city long on charm but short on function,
style over substance and no apology,
they wouldn't have it any other way.
The streets of New Orleans are wet, the air is damp,
the ground and the sky both run with water.
Out in the muddy pastures of the 9th ward
star architects build spec homes for orphans of the storm,
jewel boxes in oblique angles and colors not found in nature,
with large party decks overlooking the levee
Not everyone will come back, and who can blame them?
In a city full of cemeteries, this is hallowed ground
and who among us wants to live side by side with the dead?
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