near the gulf
The sun came up in the French Quarter and you were right there
still, your feet in the gutter, finishing off your last cigarette.
My windows were open and I was baking loaves of bread.
You splash all in pink light puddles, shining sweet air,
filthy water, liquor and piss in the street.
But it’s not acid rain so you’re skipping.
I don’t know if you’ll find me but I think the world is like a wide river
bringing you here.