French Quarter Tryst

by Heather Ann Schmidt

Saturday
on a Bayou night

down Royal Street
and beads and
ba do dee da--

the blues slipped
over me like a tight
cocktail dress

and music showed us where
to turn

the quarter swayed from

the tipsy air
and The River
reflected brown bourbon.

Little fires in windows
distorted by old glass
into orbs of ghosts,
wailing an Etta James song:

I want a Sunday kind of love....

and lovers staggered by,
drunk on the
ooo shoo do de dooo

of the half-naked night.

I took your hand
and showed you where to put it,
unlike a girl who goes to bed
early to get up for church.

We went into an alley
and let the

blue-oh-eh-ooo
da doo dee dey

shadow over us.