Hothouse

Moody as the vagaries of the New Orleans weather,
her clothes hang off her nonchalantly
like the moss off the tall trees.
We walk down a long sidewalk flanked on either side by them,
courtiers in her royal hall
pillars of St. Louis cathedral.
When she curses,
sun flits through the clouds and warms my cheek.

She broods on the patio of Cafe du Monde,
looks out at the rain gracing the park, reads her book—
I sit quietly next to her,
crowding her like the gray clouds,
but in my heart
the saxophone of a street band blares and drums beat, people murmur,
fortune tellers swindle, bouncers stand guard, tourists shop, libations
are made in honor of Bacchus in this filthy temple—
the multitudes swarm in their various purposes all to one end.

I’m one of the kids that’s beating a turned over plastic bucket,
calling out to god and begging for tips.