New Orleans

By Jim Boone

They told me to take a streetcar named Desire,
transfer to one called Cemetery, ride six blocks
and get off at Elysian Fields.’

In New Orleans

That’s what I like about the South
not only getting off at Elysian Fields
but because it’s where
every writer wants to be
for many of eternity’s moments
and every musician gravitates to
or reincarnates from
the original jazz palaces
the dives and streets
of New Orleans.

Once a year
they take sin to the streets
as it lures people there
to decorate and flaunt
whatever accelerates virgin heart-beats
< Mardi Gras >
party time to let it all show
sex and sin
two three-letter words
enjoyed by all
bringing many to their knees
for pleasure then forgiveness.

On All Hallow’s Eve
the Crescent City is the place to be
as a haunting the New Orleanians go
from Oak Alley

where Vampires have been known
to suck-up to tricks looking for treats
as the undead seduce
and scare the daylights out of
the stayin’ alive jive turkeys
who repent and straighten up
when the masks are put back on
after Mardi Gras and Halloween.

The Quarter where once reined
the voodoo of Marie Laveau
Tennessee introduced Miss Dubois
to manly Stanley
and poets got schooled
in debauchery
between too many
of Pat O’Brien’s hurricanes
and strong morning coffee
and beignets
as the first light of day
shed its Grace
across Jackson Square.

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