I Got Hijacked by the Party Bus (Continued, Rough Draft)



No one in New Orleans has to be told

to dance; street poets,

with the barefooted guitar players,

set aside their notepads to blend

instantly with a single ladies’ night out,

turn the quiet street into a dance floor,

singing, “pour some Crown in my cup,”

under the blast from a bounce song’s bass.


Tourists on the Riverwalk lean against

the railing across from Jackson Square

to watch us quizzically,

as one girl learns that you gotta

bend, lock your knees,

or let your hips find a song to rock to–

but it’s much harder than it looks.


It’s much easier to laugh at your

lack of natural rhythm while still

getting caught up in the contagion anyway,

because even when we can’t dance,

we dance as if shaking off the last flames

of a bad break up or intoxicated by a new lover.


Because we believe our bodies  are made

of the music that surrounds us. How  sometimes,

a lone sax man plays on a potholed

corner and translates what our goosebumped

skin speaks, conjuring a sway and bump

before we even realize the conversation

with the body. Or, tonight as Big Freedia

blasts from party bus speakers, we find out

our hips speak the same language (but different

dialects),  shriek and gyrate as if

to nod and say, “Ahh, you can hear it too.”


Or we are celebrating. Despite our histories,

we celebrate we are alive before

onlookers who just won’t get it anyway.








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