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New Orleans in the fifties-

The smalltown boy sat in the backseat of the car, in the middle, his arms spread onto the tops of the front seats, behind his mother and father. They were driving through New Orleans one steamy summer night, smelling the "big easy", so full of atmosphere, aroma and sound, life thrown into a visceral melange and scattered to the wind for all to sample and enjoy. "In the Still of the Night" floated silkenly from the radio of the little blue '52 Ford coupe. The boy made doo wop sounds and his father shushed him. Stifled, the boy turned to a possible ally and told his mother, "I never knew you could taste a place, but I can taste this town. It's all in the air. Everything here is in the air".The smell of red beans, rice and smoked sausage, the cajun seasonings: garlic, onion, parsley, po-boy sandwiches(fresh crusty loaves of french bread, loaded with fried shrimp, oysters or roast beef)- food seems to define and identify the city, and the smells enrich the night. From the French Quarter, the sweet lively blend of Dixieland horns and southern jazz add another dimension to the rich ambience of the night. If you don't want to move, deep in your soul, when you hear this music, you can go home- you're dead already. His mother recognized him then, as she told others later- "I know one thing about this boy. He will be a poet or a Philadelphia lawyer. Words matter to him." She was right. She knew what he was because she had seen him taste the night. Only poets taste the night.