I’m composing this,
sitting in the E-Z Breeze
under a North Carolina blue sky.
Loblolly Pines, Live Oak and scrub brush
grow around the back yard border.
The temperature’s cooling a bit,
89 degrees says the thermometer in the shade.
It’s a comfortable Carolina summer afternoon.

But I know,
some miles South and West
from where I sit,
That Bitch Hurricane Laura
is beating-up on New Orleans
like Katrina did just a few years back.
Sure, Izzy blew sand
on the barrier island streets
between me and the sea,
But New Orleans is drowning again
and people who have
nowhere to go,
aren’t going
and, Lucky Me,
I’ll learn more of their plight
from Lester Holt and Judy Woodref
on the TV News  tonight.

Why?

Why isn’t my house under water
and the dear saints of New Orleans
enjoying jazz
and night sky stars?

I’ll tell you.

The older I get,
the surer I get,

Fate’s a drunk

stumbling down Burbon Street
to the beat
of some stoned drummer
while some sax player
shares a sexy riff.

And neither she nor you nor I
will ever be sure where
or on whose back-alley-porch
we’ll sleep tonight.

And since she’ll never
sober-up,
she’ll never care.