Sample Writings
Dancing at Tipitina’s after the Flood
My husband frowns because I don’t stay home
anymore. Sunday afternoon, he is planting new
crepe myrtles, or painting over brown scum waterlines
that ring our house. I take off for Tip’s to waltz in the arms
of “God knows whom” Bernie says. “Whom,” I correct
him. “You’re wrong,” he says, “it’s whom.” Whatever.
Sundays at three, it’s the Bruce Daigrepont band.
They’ve played every week since the children were really
children. April, 2006, Tips reopens and I am there, like clockwork.
It=s down the street past weary houses and yards of car corpses.
My best friend meets me there and we Cajun jitterbug with courteous
country boys and crazy, middle aged bachelors who ask
a different girl with every song. I spin til my vision tilts,
and I wear my fresh, post-Katrina now-I-can-dance skirt,
and my mind fogs over stale thoughts of bidding
building contractors and that dead end Road Home program.
Sunday, after three, no more putrid trash piles in the street and
no yellow barricade police ribbons around the suicide house of the week.
I look over the rounded shoulder at my chin, and see a sea of used
up faces that just stare back. The dancers become a wave
of sweaty, mindless bodies that rock-sway, rock-sway into muddy
water. My nostrils fill with the scent of red beans and rice and stale
beer. Daigrepont’s voice calls out; Gina Foresythe’s fiddle cry cuts
back and forth above our heads and I sway in the blue
arms of God knows whom.
City of Hey Baby
“Dancing at Tipitina’s After the Flood,” Swamp Lily Review