Yesterday's Angel

The most beautiful part of a mostly beautiful city,
is kept behind wrought iron gates, with
mini highways traversing throughout,
surrounded by well tended lawns.
The city that knows how to party, knows
how to honor three centuries of dead.

"Down here we bury bodies above ground."
A chill travels the length of my spine
as I look around at the beautiful catacombs.
Mansions of granite or polished marble
built for housing the corpses of New Orleans.

Yesterday's angel slowly winged above
Adams Street Cemetery as Monica gave me
yet another tour of her beautiful city.

We look out of place among dark suited mourners
and the jazz band playing Amazing Grace,
with our Green Day shirts and punk rock hair.
You are only as different as you want to be in New Orleans.

When I die, if there is enough corpse to prepare,
I am not sure I want to be surrounded by rocks and sealed
with my name on a bright plaque for tourists to photograph,
stand, pose and point to file as a memory next to bright beads.
I am pretty sure when what I am now is no more
you can throw me in Lake Pontchartrain in the dark and rain.