In the City of New Orleans, It’s a night for hunters
and, well, a night for students of the like. The moon
hung in the sky like a brilliant child wandering the
cosmos. Lampposts loomed over the city streets with
their brazen eyes of shaded light as crowds of people
streamed along busy sidewalks, walking in and out of
various shops and restaurants. There was a gathering
waiting in line at the Silver Moon, a jazz club where
most young people go to escape. Some of them stood beside
the building smoking, drinking, laughing and yelling.
One teenager climbed upon a street post which read,
Welcome to New Orleans, and watched the oncoming traffic
of cars and trucks and mini vans with frustrated people
who seemed cursed. Another teenager ran to the pole and
pushed the other off. Both laughed hysterically and
disappeared into the crowd.
Beyond the club, a woman wondered over to a young man in a
wheel chair and asked him if he had any change so that she
could buy heroine. Across the street a man with a black cap
had a body of a young girl in the trunk of his car. He was
parked on the side of the street with a lit cigarette but
wasn’t really smoking it. He found his next victim. An old
man with long gray hair and a long frizzy beard walked
steadily passed the mass of people and hailed a taxi.
Inside his black jacket was a gun the name Smith and Wesson
was etched in small print along the handle.
This is New Orleans every night.
Always watch you back and never trust any one.
