New Year's Day on Burgundy Street

Beneath the cheers,

the hot clamor of horns
that sing
like the laughter of drunks,
that sing
like the lonely patter
of bare feet on cobblestone
at three a.m.
A funereal march of sorts.

And nether still,
the chorus of beetles
gnashing
the feast of a thousand bones,
rotting
in the mud of St. Louis,
the forgotten stories of Storyville.

Further below,
lies the unheard music
your heart
beating against my palm
your breath
rising under my lips.
It is this song that braces me
against the storm,
It is this song that gives me hope.

© 2016 gibson grand