Glass Of Absinthe Poem by Ernest Hilbert

New Orleans

Decisions are uncomfortable
In this atmosphere. Valves drain, swell to ballad—

Measures pound flaked light, sun over
Iron lace of a railing on Royal Street—

Metal scrolled into oak leaves, acorns, sad long horns
In the day's shadows—urinal smell, late coffee.

A life shaped by digressions: Linger long
Enough, and death might move somewhere else.

She seems drunk but is not, her white skirt webbed
With black from a fall on wet cobblestones.

Nothing is simple. There is no good news.
She lights a small cigarette. She nods off.

She drinks up, then moves on. The horns stop, sprawl,
Speed up. Snares salvo in the scorched dark.