The summer in New Orleans melts
ambition from your bones;
and inspires dreams of northern climes,
of much more temperate zones
where flowers last a day or two
before they start to wilt,
and the ground does not suck ravenous
at water where it’s spilt,
where saunas are a novelty.
Here, one does not require
expensive redwood boxes built
just so you can perspire.
The air fights you at every breath;
it’s thick, and wet and hot,
and lays to waste wrought iron,
turns all exposed wood to rot.
The oh-so-languid pace of winter
here gets slower still;
expect no summer revolutions
in this fetid swill.
17 JUN 2005
