The Cafe du Monde is
more than a rich chicory blend
served in thick ceramic mugs;
it’s powdered sugar
turning your denim thighs
to baby-blue pastel
as you dig out a dollar
for the sax player
on the sidewalk six feet away —
a musician with eyes
that see heaven when he blows,
but go dead with despair and
too much cheap wine when he stops,
whose lips pressed against brass
shout joy in your ear
then frame a smile
dark with decay and neglect.
The Cafe du Monde is
glory rolled in flour
and inspiration fried in lard.
It’s grounds at the bottom
so thick you can write your name.
It’s jazz and badly-dressed tourists
and the dubious fragrance of the Mississippi.
It’s coffee dark and bitter as the city’s politics.
The Cafe du Monde is
two parts past mixed with one part present,
baked slowly into a future memory that rises
as golden as the beignets.
© 2024 Su Falco
