i'm collecting pieces of slate
from all over this city,
like unwanted
refugees. like all of the people
who come to new orleans to live
on her sidewalks and be
marginalized.
i'm waiting for
some kind of sign
that any of us belong here,
swamp-cum-city,
city-cum-sewer, -cum-wreckage as
the neighbors tear walls out
five years after the storm.
here, we all know what
"after the storm"
is referring to.
referring to a city still
in bloom,
its business bustle,
not neglect, five years out,
or houses that sort-of
stand, but are mostly
see-through.
what's it like?
ask my far away friends, and
i have no words for them,
only pictures
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