Sonnet to Katrina
The boxcars of Biloxi have become homes
Again as the first world becomes the third world
Overnight. The piles of twisted, gnarled debris
And flood waters up to here, all through
The funky, jazzed-up city of New Orleans
Where she once sat in the sunshine, the light
And the heat of a day-time bar, music and sex
Shining across the neo-French playground
My lover, whose colourful postcard from the French
Quarter is at odds with television images from Baton
Rouge bursting through the safety of the lounge, she
Has in the past had a similar effect on my emotions
As though she were also named Katrina, but now I watch
The disappearing Nu’orlins Blues from a distance
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