Afternoons in the heartland of jazz
even the buskers are hot,
sitting in the shade,
blowing on Summertime.
Evenings, the ghosts of bayou pirates
groove to the new music then drift
down Bourbon Street throwing
beads at drunk, giggling girls.
Mornings, revellers stumble
to Café du Monde for Café au lait,
echo of driving blues and the day's
street cleaners pounding in their heads.