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?
