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SPARROW NIGHTS

These sparrow nights
take me back
to Decatur Street,
the radio playing
angry Mingus
and little Jimmy Scott,
the rivers spilling over
their yellow banks
as we slept
the sleep
of the young
and righteous.
Next morning,
the debris passed
like Christmas ornaments
under the bridge
and the railway crossing
as the haze lifted
and was replaced
by a sun
splitting nails.
The gardens
were drunk
with hyacinth
and bougainvillea.
Kids caught catfish
with lumps of bread
in the morning,
and fireflies
in jam jars
at night.
Eddie Tone sat
on his porch
cursing women
and all gods.
Auntie Jay
was off to the L&M
for late-night ice cream.
Her daughter
took the shit dog
all the way
to Hollywood, CA.
There’s Jack O
under the pylons,
reading some forgotten
French novel.
A genius for sure,
Jack O.
The bells
of the Abbey of Gethsemane
rang brassy
and hollow.
And we talked,
argued,
laughed,
and drank
until it was time
for me and the Rileys
to pack up
and go to work.
One was a welder.
The other a butcher.
Or so they said.
We walked up the hill
with a fistful
of longnecks,
the city
like Alexandria
in the swamp.