• I sit here in the cafe T, eating gumbo.
    Outside, Marti Gras. The beat of the
    Music throbs in my blood. My feet,
    Of their own accord, tap out a rhythm.
    The hot Creole coffee is sweet and strong.
    I think back to Texas,
    Bitter early morning coffee on the farm
    In my hometown,
    The flannel sheets warm against the
    Morning chill.
    Each night, potatoes and collard greens.
    Mom hushing Dad, warning him about
    Big ears listening.
    I'm brought from my reverie as my
    Friend gives my shoulder a slug.
    He motions outside to the jostling crowd
    And says we're missing the action.
    Thoughts of home slip away as the night
    Air of New Orleans strikes my face.