Phone Call from the French Quarter
Her panic drops like a coin through the crackle
of the pay phone’s static. Hard enough
that her apartment was the same
as when she left, even the paperback
open on the bed, as if some demon, perhaps
one in the brown vines crumbling
on the trellis, whispered just a dream—stench
in the vaulted dark, clamor for the bus, shapes
scattered thickly on the overpass--wake up
now but the refrigerator upholstered
in worms. She knelt and swiped, knelt
and wrung, knelt and bleached, still
holding herself together, laughing
with her friends gathered in
candlelight, even laughing when the six
National Guardsmen trooped into the bar
fanned out, stood sentry for ten
minutes, dangling automatic weapons.
Then two kids in starched
uniforms materialized at her elbows
as she struggled with an overstuffed
bag of groceries and they didn’t help
when a can tipped out of the sack and skittered
on the cobblestones. She quickened
refusing to bend over in front of them. One
told her he was there to protect her
with his muscle and made a motion
so she knew exactly what he meant. All
the way to her front door—they paced her
arms brushing her shoulders, clattering
their guns behind them. She shook so
much the groceries ricocheted
down the stairway where she left
them, spun against her door. This is
my city, my city and I am losing it. Her voice
sinks into the phone’s static, a home folding
under the waves.
Her panic drops like a coin through the crackle
of the pay phone’s static. Hard enough
that her apartment was the same
as when she left, even the paperback
open on the bed, as if some demon, perhaps
one in the brown vines crumbling
on the trellis, whispered just a dream—stench
in the vaulted dark, clamor for the bus, shapes
scattered thickly on the overpass--wake up
now but the refrigerator upholstered
in worms. She knelt and swiped, knelt
and wrung, knelt and bleached, still
holding herself together, laughing
with her friends gathered in
candlelight, even laughing when the six
National Guardsmen trooped into the bar
fanned out, stood sentry for ten
minutes, dangling automatic weapons.
Then two kids in starched
uniforms materialized at her elbows
as she struggled with an overstuffed
bag of groceries and they didn’t help
when a can tipped out of the sack and skittered
on the cobblestones. She quickened
refusing to bend over in front of them. One
told her he was there to protect her
with his muscle and made a motion
so she knew exactly what he meant. All
the way to her front door—they paced her
arms brushing her shoulders, clattering
their guns behind them. She shook so
much the groceries ricocheted
down the stairway where she left
them, spun against her door. This is
my city, my city and I am losing it. Her voice
sinks into the phone’s static, a home folding
under the waves.