a poem that captures the mysterious city of the night
|When I go to that land in the sky,
take me out in New Orleans style.
A great jazz band celebrating Al Hirt,
singing Lady Day or playing the Bird.
Lots of people celebrating my life,
triumphs and tragedies,
mountain peaks and valley lows,
I lived, loved and put on a show.
Champagne flowing, plenty of toasts,
for the woman I was, wanted to be,
for pleasure I gave;
the drama I craved.
Bury me next to Marie Laveau.
Her tomb; a party in black velvet nights.
Burning candles, hanging gris-gris,
all for miracles in the Wicked City of Delight.
The cities of the Dead never sleep.
Rusty gates squeak and wheeze.
Open to visitors, with warm blood,
cold vapor shadows that need no keys.
By Kathie Stehr