Expecting to find winter in an empty back pocket,
He found summer instead in a five dollar bill.
With a spring in his step, he entered the St. Charles Tavern,
Autumnís chill grazing an unshaven face
And the back of a sockless heal.
Submerging himself in a chorus of conversation
He swims to a bar-stool, warms his hands, waits his round.
Ignoring the scent of Fridayís catfish buffet,
His eyes on the tap, as a streetcar rolls past,
Purposefully heading Uptown.
It seemed sacrilege to be sober in the wake of October,
The beads of Mardi Gras still clinging to leafless, lifeless trees;
Reduced to a specter, staring out of a window,
The grip of New Orleans now rattled his bones,
Her carnival tits, just a tease.
Defiantly, he strives to revive his illusions,
Knowing the end of the world is but one, unforgiving, river away.
With a pint in his hand, down to the St. Charles Tavern,
He pays homage to this olí port in a storm,
And dreams of the hot summer days.
Michael True 1-21-07 last edit 11-19-08