It was early in the morning
Several hours before the sun would awake
The stale smell of dried expired beer
Filled the streets as incense to Bacchus.
An old young man stumbles to find his way
In the damp streets of a rainless quarter
Jazz echoes off century-old buildings
As if being replayed in a memory
With the river to my left
And the sinful streets to my right
I walk past Jackson Square
A shelter for the drug dealer cloaked by the shadow of the Cathedral
I have left a sea of white faces
Who have finished their evening offerings to Saint Bourbon
Only to face sparse black faces
Tapping away for a stray nickle
And so it was before the storm
A catastrophe?
A blessed purging?
A spineless excuse for a westward trail of tears?
A city built on the improvisation of Jazz
Is again faced with uncertainty
Dear God, craft our melody
With the rhythm of the Spirit
So that the harmony of Christ
May be sung by a choir of NEW Orleans Saints