There was a blind man once
in the Quarter
on Royale Street near the jumbo hot dog stand
in the middle of a jazz filled night
and November's fury cold
He stretched out a tin cup in a shaking palsied hand
carefully placing his feet on the cobblestones
arms linked with a compatriot - equally blind.
I watched the two of them journey
They gingerly walked and stretched
tin cups in front of them
A beggar's crusade through the crowds of life
I marveled at New Orleans' face
its wealth - its poor - its hungry mouths
French cuisine and Preservation Hall
Café Du Monde and Jackson Square
"Paint your picture, lady?"
The Royale Orleans and antique shops
Worn out horses and carriages
overworked and numb with cold
A Creole version of Central Park
The muddy Mississippi
calliopes and muted trombones
A piece cut out of America's heart
And a man lay in the gutter
snoring off a drunk
in shirtsleeves
his head resting on the stone curb
his soul wavering in hell
There was a blind man once
In the Quarter
etched deep in my rawest wounded memories
~(C)~
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