On Bourbon Street

The drums fall silent as the rock guitar
cries mournfully; the vodka burns my throat.
The saxophone joins in, and as they spar
I draw another twenty from my coat.

The table to the right is short on beer;
the waitress makes her rounds, a loaded tray.
Exhausted, but her smile appears sincere.
I wave, the bill in hand, as if to pay.

"Another one?" she asks, points at the drink.
The Bloody Mary about halfway done --
"You busy later?" -- a half-hearted wink.
"Fuck you", she mouths, then pats my hand, and gone.

The cocktails drown in atmosphere and beat.
The poet and his muse, on Bourbon Street.

Author notes: written 2/19