• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 01
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The Crescent

Every street in
these few blocks
is haunted,
the tour guide
stovepipe hat
and curling
waxed mustache.
Here, as an example
was where
a fire
had taken
35 souls
in 1867
and some nights
it is still
to see flames
and hear screams.
And here,
on this corner,
a knifing
and you can
still see
the stain,
brown and flaked
but refusing
to wash away.


The Crescent

Out there,
beyond the levy,
a riverboat
and most nights
a calliope
still sings
along the
Old Mississippi,
playing Roll Out,
Heave That Cotton,
the song it played
as all drowned.

He pulls
his swallowtail coat
closed against
the wind
and winks,
saying that
even an animal
that dies
in the Quarter
will be seen to
haunt it,


The Crescent

explaining the pack
of gray, mangy dogs
that sometimes
can be seen in alleys
eating discarded
crawfish shells.

I hope so.
It's not easy
to live in the Crescent.
But it seems
like a hell
of a place
to die.