Hot beignet drops from shaking hand,
phosphorescent meteor of confectioners sugar
scatters sweetness to a silent Jackson Square.
The plump fried pastry sparks to life
upon splashdown in a Mississippi colored puddle,
succulent ripples breach the curb,
strut down the sidewalk, lap on doors,
then leap to the humid air,
to penetrate every lacy wrought iron balcony,
to enter the tall windows, the squat ones,
even the closed ones through air conditioner coils,
and rustle sheer faded curtains into a swinging rhythm.
Riverboat horn toots a bass line
walking that New Orleans funk into every parlor,
ceiling fans spin in syncopation,
sugar dust magic finds every snare,
tom-tom, bass drum, djembe, and conga,
and bends streetlights to the groove.
Trumpets fill themselves with urgent breath,
well-oiled trombones slide underneath,
clarinet keys snick awake to filigree atop,
while saxophones growl themselves into the batter,
guitar strings swirl against frets, banjo heads pulse with the drums,
and metal reeds bend deep within harmonica honeycombs.
From Canal Street to Frenchmen,
the entire Quarter is rocking this night song,
and only the deepest sleepers get a waft of this delight,
seasoned just to their taste –
sweet, hot, spicy, cool – swinging hard –
until the street cleaners suck it all back to silence,
punched into the dough of the city,
to later rise towards powdered stardust