Nobody called this place the Big Easy when I lived here
a couple of hurricanes ago, on some
street I’ve forgotten.
I’m back, and taxiing down the Rue de Rivoli,
hoity-toity name for such a dingy street,
all old flats and warehouses
and I know
people inside are not living,
not a soul could survive
In all that grey.
The famous river, though--
doesn’t it shimmer at night:
Come on in!
The water’s fine.
Ha, ha! Fooled you!
That train whistle’s like an arrow going through me.
I leave you with my uptown club membership card
good for one free bourbon a month,
long as the doors remain open,
which I hope is another hundred years.
A pair of black candles for the next storm.
Softly, the Louisiana rain
Trish Saunders writes poems and short fiction from Seattle. She has been published numerous places such as The Rye Whiskey Review, Pacifica Poetry Review, Mien, The American Journal of Poetry and many others. She appreciates them all
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