To the Editor:
Although exiled up here in Ohio snow today
my mind is down South in the Crescent City,
1,000 miles away, hearing Paul Roberson
singing Ol' Man River as only that big man could.
It's Mardi Gras in New Orleans! Fat Tuesday!
Laissez les bons temps rouler in the Big Easy.
I'm New Orleans born, NOLA bred, 'nuff said.
On this day of days, I ache to be back at home.
Slurping raw oysters at Felix's Oyster Bar, then
going for dinner at Galatoire's on Bourbon Street.
Ordering oysters Rockefeller, crabmeat Sardou and
sweet banana bread pudding chased by Café Br lot.
Digging old men rift young jazz at Preservation Hall;
catching doubloons from resplendent floats; watching
women flash their breasts for strings of shiny beads.
"Throw me something Mister! Throw me something!"
Dancing in streets named Tchoupitoulas or Melpomene;
wolfing down an oyster po'boy or an original muffuletta;
a Plum Street snowball with orchid cream vanilla topping;
gazing from a gazebo with old buddies in Audubon Park.
Sucking a Pat O'Briens Hurricane in the Vieux Carre,
or sipping a Sazerac in the Roosevelt Hotel bar, or a
Ramos Gin Fizz with the ghost of Huey P. Long, then
Café du Monde beignets in a cloud of powdered sugar.