New Orleans
The buildings rise from the horizon in the morning sun,
and the city begins to wake
as the scent of creole-style gumbo
rises from the streets.
In the distance, the Mississippi teems,
alive with a thousand variety of fish
as the steamboats, oil riggers, and
ships move inland.
To the port of New Orleans, children take the ferry
with their parents and wave hello
from the windows of omnibuses
and chat of the weather.
In the daylight, the city traffic creeps at a slow pace
as people rush to and fro,
Taxis honk in the streets as bicycles rush beneath the lights
and along the sidewalks.
Young couples sip cafe lattes at the local coffee shop
as grandmothers and grandfathers take their
grandchildren to the aquarium.
I am a spectator to all these events,
a solemn witness in pen and ink, and
I think there is a commonality
in this walk of life.
Gentle Prof –
The tales were so loudly told
Of new buses, of omnibuses;
Your tales-bearers so numerous
Loud-sounding speakers
Sharp ear-piercing trumpeters
Harping like some prime oracles
Announcing the benevolence of the deity
Each weaver sing-wept for joy
Even in these hard times!
Where are the buses?
Where are the omnibuses?
In a trick of sacrifice
Within the shrines of smaller deities
The gallant wheels bear the kids
Of our rabbi-bosses
Pampering their swap-ward women & maids
Like the ambrosia & emerald of deities
(Prof, a watch-lad saw them)
Was this intent?
Then on the day of campus turmoil
A new elephant-wheel came to us
(Prof, a watch-lad saw it all!)
Lads & lasses beamed as bosses
In the gallantry of a new conveyancer
– Was this intent? –
(Pro, think well now!)
Was it the trick of old bosses
To cover another clear loophole:
To dim the eye of the sun?