The airplane flew out
while we sat
             drinking Daiquiris
on Bourbon Street,
leaning against a lamppost
with legs outstretched from a low curb,
across the rows of stones
to drain the rain.

When we realize in the cab
ride to the airport someone says
'Let's see if we can catch the next skybus
into Dulles'.
              I say ' we could go back
to Big Daddy's, see Fawn, maybe stay the night
instead of sleeping
in the processed air, on cold steel
and sticky blue cushions, of N.O.I.,
maybe find the solace
she sought from Mississippi to Toronto
before breezing into town
four Mardi Gras' ago'";
before time became the moon
that passes slowly through the moss,
steady as my insistence on missing every plane.


Next Stop>