New Orleans

 These three skeleton amigos strum a tune, and suddenly I know who that serenade is for. Their gray white bones crackle across thick lines pulled taught, and their memories flood coffins of their past. The purple is for when they were royal, kings of their fate. But time invaded and spun them through blue star nights and now they rule the used to be.

I understand them now, the high sweet chords they demand of their instruments. They play, and they smile, and they remember when familiar faces frothed in bubbly abundance.

Creamy doors bounce on brass hinges, their weight coaxed by a breathy breeze. It swirls around me, smells of the West and liquid cool nights. It’s a dream recollection and everything is gauzy, the song coming through a static speaker. Its lyrics are of friends with cinnamon skin and soul-addicting laughter – all that exists on opposite coasts.

The three amigos bow; they know I know, and their song blows closed creamy doors.


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