The plane touched the earth again in Orleans Parish walking , I breathed in the heavy southern air that spoke of river, and mud, and gulf, and heat, and swamp lands, in one long-congested breath.
Then off barreling down the concrete highway toward Ocean Springs and catfish and family I go.
The black clouds draped in curdled skin
eyed us, and the wind stirred them slow. The thunderheads hung heavy and green, all hail-stone full. Rolling across the sky's dark bowl, blackened from edge to edge with but a single shining slit lying low to the East. A sleeping crescent moon lain to nap. I drug the chair from my motel room and resumed a seat not sat in years, upon my soon-to-be stormed on porch. The slow start of fat drops hitting dust with a sloppy, full sound. The rumbled humidity recedes for a few minutes. My ears savored that old sweet song, every word and verse. Amen.
These days I am a traffic jam of stuff Topside, somewhere under brown and silver hair, sits my brain Inside it's own congruent bungalow, with a couple of windows for light Dutifully manned by my own personal Lily Tomlin, sitting in a old wooden swivel chair, here legs hugging like twins. Laboriously plugging and unplugging crisscrossed phone lines , playfully fidgeting with the neck of her blouse and batting her eyes. Doing her utmost to keep up with the ever coming calls.
Nervy Autobahns are bumper to bumper with shocks of pain, panic cold or fear.
I see the hairs on my arm rise erect in the cold Autumn breeze, then it's, "Cross legs; sweat lightly behind the knees; now salivate and chew. Sneeze, sneeze again, now sigh" Veins and arteries each run in their one-way directions and see my pumping heart in an aged Grand Central Station
with groined vaults and corridors slathered in cream tinted subway tiles. Inbound and outbound trains heralded from old cone-shaped loud speakers in crackly-muffled voice. My sign boards buzz with flipping letters spelling out new destinations after each burst of steam and departure.
Dinner arrives, dumped right there on the freight platform, for all to see. The firemen shovel and feed it towards the fire below, through caverns too dark to see a hand in front of your face. Ah, yes. Someone needs to take out the trash. OK, let me get my slippers.