NEW ORLEANS SHORTS
BY ROBERT KLEIN ENGLER

LA CHATELAINE
Keys on a chain slap his hip.
His leather jacket is faded.
A ponytail waves down from
his backward baseball cap.

He goes up to the sofabed.
Nature made her to take
the muscle of his pain, still,
she has a pain of her own.

STOPS ALONG THE TOUR
On Decatur Street
they tell of the first man
to make ice in Louisiana.
It wasn't my ex, Andy,
but it could have been.

MASKS AND MAKE-BELIEVE
You seldom see
the gray light of winter
here, except reflected
in someone's eyes.

Take that hustler there,
painted in disco blue.
He spent his youth,
and now has nothing left.

CANAL -- END OF THE LINE
The Odd Fellow's Rest
in their vaults behind
whitewashed walls.

Traffic rushes past.
You know how it hurts to wait.
What's for dinner tonight?

COURTYARD
She walks on the balcony
with bare feet, opens a jar
for the ashes and lights
her cigarette. Sometimes,
our wish is like mud, other
times it billows like a ghost.

SUNSET LIMITED
The train is late.
A bright-eyed boy
plays with a ball.

You can tell he will
be handsome one day.

Above his head,
in the chalky mural,
cards are being dealt.

NORTH TO NOVEMBER
Glaucoma of sky.
Weave of spiny trees.
Mirror of rain wet rails.
We just pass by.
Hold us for a while.