Random Weird Person

Near river's edge outside the Cafe du Monde,

John Brown sets up his telescope.

It's taller than he is by a foot, and it

probably outweighs him, too.


I sip cafe au lait, wipe powered sugar

from off cheeks and nose,

staring into the darkness of

Jackson Square when a stranger steps

out of the past and into the light of a streetlamp.


Is it the hat, the hair, the long leather coat

the thinness of legs or chest that conjure up

miasmas of floating saloons on the

languid Mississippi?


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