They were not days of wine and roses
But afternoons of rum and platains.
Where Victorian gingerbread raveled
around plantation style wicker.
Often facing the Bayou- waves gleaming in the sun
the siestas turned to carefree nights
Conversations swelling to tales
Bottle after bottle
The seasonal calendar of the Crescent
Allowed times with the muses
as they passed on on the Canal- floating
Flinging plastic treasures to the adoring mass.
Time was measured not by clocks
But by meals and the contrast of light
upon the porch slats
As it moved across our blurred vision.
Like the exiles of a faded island
we try and recreate that sunny orb
In dozens of cafes, tiny porches, and concrete patios.
We drink the same sugar
We ravel the same tales.
Yet the laziness of that time is gone.
For so many of us, muse not for muse's sake
But muse of work and payments
We refuse another sip for its influence,
or skip another round of fried plantains
Because of the excess of carbs.
And thus we are exiles....
From our own lives.