Nola’s Ghosts

Summer’s made her way down south
wrapped us up in her humid cloak
and the sun finally warms my bones.
No water in the streets now, just holes
in the skyline; cold concrete earth
dotted here and there, like stumps of old trees
slain by the winds.  Down there they struggle on
hammers on nails on shotgun houses
centuries old, with new Romeo poles;
but its still quiet up here.
There’s more of us now to watch the life
running in frantic fear below, not a second to be lost;
all we have is endless time.  So we watch
from third floor windows, safe in our lofty perches
where natives know not to venture.
From fire or flood, we are the attic-damned
who fled towards heaven to escape the hell
that killed us on rooftops and balconies;
the forgotten children who linger
in this city that burned and drowned.