I wrote this one a few weeks ago.
The only memory for a Cresent City kid:
Mardi Gras krewes—Momus and Comus,
Bacchus, Babylon, Zulu, and Rex—
Carnival crazy on the city’s streets.
Shrieking siren. Parade’s coming!
Tower truck leading, checking the trees.
Tall as the tallest float, Dad said.
Flambeaux guys, bobbing to the beat,
torching the night with crackling light,
not a white face among them.
Horns and drums. Horses prancing
prettily as morning glories bussed by the breeze.
Masked madcaps in sequins and capes
casting small blessings into the ocean
of hands: “Hey, mistah, throw me sumptin’!”
Beads glistening and dripping,
caught in the trees even months later.
Technicolor tears in Katrina’s hometown.