The Crescent Caretaker

by Peter Erich

Enter Tipitina's — the rotation hole

where electric, shoeless uncles

allocate their copper goulashes

to catch white dripwater.

In the predawn,

in this open window asteroid awareness,

ballet chimes spinning, ceiling, sink

& doorbell.

For the crescent caretaker, the overcoat,

the impalpable void having an affair

within the rain soaked arteries of New Orleans,

we are running down the stairs - snare drum,

snare drum,

snare drum —

squeak & turn on the banister rail,

Because Professor Longhair is on stage

whistling, a lamplit Moses laughing

with filthy vigor and toddling fingers.

He's playing an electroscope blues like a hurricane,

a frenzy which stirs our drink clean.