She’s the Queen Metropolis of the South,
However she ain’t no southern belle.
She’s a bourbon-drinking broad
Made exhausting by her battles
In wars, ailments, and different floods.

However at night time her streetlights
Are the twinkles in her eyes—
And from the high-rise
On these nights when the clouds
Have deserted the rain maker
You could find life in them sockets
That sparkles just like the Massive Dipper.

However when the levees broke,
Our hope bought soaked,
And so did the twinkle in her eyes—
We questioned if this
Would possibly result in our demise
’Trigger from the high-rise
You may see what was left
When gentle was sucked again into the stomach of its creator.

The remaining darkness
Wrapped its arms round
The mangled physique of town,
Hiding her gaping wounds
From a nervous moon,
Which questioned
What occurred to the music
And wished to know
How come these days the rain smelled like tears.

The unhappy odor of fearful kids
And waterlogged desires
Made the moon blue.
The rancid odor of neglect
And uncooked sewage
Made the moon mirror badly on the water
And the US authorities.
So badly, the blue moonshine drinker bought full,
Began pulling on the water and kicking up a storm.

Articles in The New York Instances Titled “Dying of an American Metropolis”
Had individuals from Uptown to the Decrease Ninth Ward
Pinching themselves and blowing in mirrors
In search of affirmation of life
Whereas attempting to not lose hope—
Like Mr. Joe who was a consummate optimist
As a result of he had hope all his life
And when he was first given the information about his flooded dwelling
He awakened each morning to a cup of espresso
And the hope that issues weren’t as unhealthy as they stated.
This time he embraced hope firmly in his hand
As a result of he was a carpenter,
However he turned his head lengthy sufficient
To wipe his eyes and blow his nostril,
Solely to show again
And discover that his hope

Had flatlined in his hand.
A double Katrina whammy—
An excessive amount of strain on a seventy-year-old coronary heart.
So days later he went the best way of his hope,
And his associates questioned what damage most—
Was it the destruction of his dwelling
Or the demise of his hope?
Speaking heads serving up twenty-four-hour information slop
Referred to us as refugees—
Simply earlier than a U.S. congressman steered
That the previous lady be bulldozed—
Forcing us to collectively fish our start certificates
From the poisonous soup
To seek out that house that talks about place of birth,
To see if we actually did reside in a metropolis
That actually was in a state
That actually was in the US of America
In search of conformation of citizenship.

The replay was known as A Requiem in 4 Acts—
So we discovered our reflections within the muck
And whispered in its ear, “Are you able to inform us if we’re nonetheless alive please?”

Unable to provide you with the fitting phrases
Our reflection
Didn’t reply again,
And we had been unnerved by the silence
As a result of the eulogizers had been starting to eulogize.
However then
We noticed your tambourine shake,
And we heard your drum beat,
And once we felt the new air
Streaming from the fats finish of the brass,
We knew it was the breath of this metropolis
And it was the affirmation that we had been on the lookout for.

So we shouted out to the gravedigger,
“Maintain on to your grime pa’tner—
’Trigger we ain’t useless but.”

This poem, by Lens award-winning contributor Chuck Perkins, is excerpted by permission from his new ebook, Stunning and Ugly Too, lately launched by the College of Louisiana at Lafayette Press.

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