I sit on a raggedy strait chair,
as I gaze out through old pane glass,
which loosely exists in an over-painted window frame.
I breathe in heavy, acrid air.
The humidity here is stiffling.
My cigarette smoke hangs in the air,
like tendrils of Spanish moss.
It's as if it's afraid to go anywhere.
It proliferates, adding to the blue/gray haze of my room.
I wheeze and inhale.
The smells of fungus, moldy carpeting, and decay envelope me.
I sip whiskey, and notice that Bourbon Street is deserted this morning.
I look out my window to the north.
Chicago is so far away, and I am in a dream.
I pen poetry.
I have no money for paints or canvas.
This is enough to sustain me, for now.
I have to find a construction crew,
to save enough "git" to get away.
I'll get on that train...
The City Of New Orleans, Illinois Central,
ramblin' back to Chicago.
I'll have my battered suitcase in hand,
where the streets are just as mean.
I'll be filled with the same pain,
no difference from whence I came.
Alone, I walk in the madness of men.
I forge ahead, again and again.
I have the blood of youthful adventure in my veins.
So I write my life in my memory book.
I try to recapture it once again.
But it's never the same.