Uptown in Bigtown New Orleans, one
Of many brown dumpsters on Melpomene
Breathes the sulphur smell of Hell.
Guarding bins one to three is round
Hard work. Of territory, you’ve got
To know the story, else you roll foul
Into Old Man and float downsea.
Daniel searched for lunch and found
A Spanish onion, an apple baked,
A molded cake, and Cajun grunion.
Shade pillowed he spoke to Greenwillow;
A fine language bilanguid,
And, as always, sanguine lingual.
Lazy lunch crowd chatter slipped
Into thoughts subliminal. He watched
Two girls share an ice cream cone,
A visceral reflection featuring
Pink tongues and cold confection.
White in hazy heavens, Sun hovered
Over Hyatt, Super Egg nearby it.
In lazy motion along the Moon Walk strolling,
By Old Man rolling, he dreamed of Molly:
Her lips were not sweet,
But tasted faintly of stuff less saintly;
Her hair was not soft,
But somewhat wiry, not pure red but brown fiery.
First button, then last. Her skin revealed
Was peppery freckled and sun pealed, but
With taste appeal in seasoning, roots of
Mad, naked, summer reasoning in his past.