And You Danced in the Streets of New Orleans
Mariner Trilling

The chilly dark dangerous streets
had become our warm and safe playground
for those displaced nights.

The century-old columns and creeping kudzu
held back the world of offices and forklifts
so we could drink at the bar all night
and tip the bartender with verse. 

We played footsie beneath the waist-deep jazz music
catching a wicked buzz
when the scent of Jitterbug Perfume
lured us into the street among the flowing tourists and neon. 

and you danced in the streets of New Orleans

You danced in the center of the street
spinning your joyful blond hair,
black mini dress and arms spinning outward,
one hand clutching a frozen hurricane
in a plastic cup shaped like an alligator,
the other hand’s fingers tangled
in the straps of your black high heel shoes
abandoned to the night. 

The asphalt tempered by Katrina’s history tore
riot girl fetish holes in your fishnet stockings
while the daily grime traffic paints grey henna
on the soles of your small white feet.

and you danced in the streets of New Orleans

I stood at the Bourbon Street curb
like the street performers and
off-duty strippers entranced by your swirling joy.

Shoulder to shoulder with the ghosts of Tennessee Williams
and the vampire LaStadt who said,

Damn, that girl is so fucking hot.