I. Cemetery Number One
Cold water, one dollar
Crows calling in the
cemetery
Book about water
Mud underfoot Ferns
growing out of the walls
Cackles, protestations
Free tours
Vaults, sarcophagi
biers Hide and seek
among gravestones
Marble, cement
etched names
A spigot, dry for years
This land, this district
used to be for sugar.
Mosquitoes, yellow fever,
three kids dead in a
day. Tombs
of slaves, built by slaves.
Brick and mortar,
still standing
Magnolias, their roots
seeking air
II. 15 Freret
Farm economy, farm po-boy
What once was plantation is
crossed now by buses, the 15 Freret
from green and luscious Tulane
past gentle pockets and then into
the run-down, check-cashing corners and
chicken markets, spraypaint on plywood
drunk man boards, he drunk for good reason
everything he owns falling out of a
suitcase, zipper’s broke, he cinches it
together, almost, with the type of
plastic bags I’ve gotten good at saying
No to at the grocery, all my fresh produce
nestled quietly into sturdy canvas bags
which I clutch to my chest like children
III. Untitled
Oh, New Orleans
I don’t want to go to sleep
but my body’s turning
all the lights off
already
When I cannot keep
my eyes open I
fall asleep with your
poetry in my hands
IV. Hotel Bill, Room 345
vaping
sex in bed
previously undisclosed suite fee
farting in the hallway
beer trash
laughing
listening to street jazz
jizzing over balcony
complaining about air freshener
plugging in fridge
exposure of male nipple from window
window-shopping recovery fee
failure to use umbrella
oyster gluttony
being only sort-of into the Saints
who dat
re-commissioned key cards
unlicensed fashion show
two-sided skirt
red shoes
ice
The Writing of John B. Randall 