New Orleans Will Trip You Karen Sandberg Moss grows between pavement blocks in the heat and afternoon rainfall. Red bricks angle underfoot. Humid now, sunlight tiptoes into dark courtyards overhung with palms and pink flowers twining iron fretwork. Music bubbles like fountains splashing jazz or Cajun, hangs from the balustrade like tipsy ferns. You come here to look around, sun tipples your head. Fronds from the palm tree makes a fan like a coquette. And in a shadowed surround, a guitar sings the blues. You are unable to leave. You find work in a bar, grow your hair long, pierce your ears and nose, disappoint your mother. In the evening, your life leans over the balcony.
Published on May 18, 2017