One More Go

Half past one in the morning,
the party in the French Quarter
continues on.

The open doors of bars and clubs,
where cover bands, jazz legends,
and never-will-be's
play gentle blues,
mix their sounds
with the gentle Gulf breeze.

A whisper of wind
wafts through narrow streets,
carrying a mix of beignets, coffee,
stale beer, and shrimp.

Past The Goldmine,
where we danced in the throb of
hot flesh, Rap, techno,
and Cajun music,
the sigh of moving air goes.

Picking up speed,
the freshet moves
down Bourbon,
to Club Oz,
ruffling the hair
of the party boys,
who clapped and hooted
when I changed
into my
rainbow shirt,
standing upon the bar.

Out of the Quarter
the hot air flows,
on past warehouses and
shuddered, abandon buildings
to where
Ponchartrain sleeps
in moonlit breeze.

I wanted to stay,
dance and drink,
you wanted romance,
and cuddling.
As the wind blows
a tumbleweed
upon the Texas plain,
we ended up,
out of money,
and out of town.

Here we cuddle
and love and be alone
away from
the hurly burly
and pell mell
of the busy
wind blown night.

Half past one in the morning.
The party in the French Quarter
continues without us.