I begin at the sidewalks edge. In front of me I see a street lit up with nightlife and neon signs. Next to me is my oldest friend, both of us dressed in a sliver of fabric. We take one last look at each other before we take our first step. Our ears listen to the music pouncing out of every entry in any flavor. The smell of cat pee and fried shrimp po’boys surrounding a crowd full of unfamiliar faces. Beads falling onto half naked women from a balcony up above. A walk further down as shoulders bump from side to side. Trash cans appear to be used as drums flowing to the rhythm of the liquid stained streets. White powder brushes peoples noses. A cat performs magic on the corner with a hat. Passing alleyways one should never walk alone, to reaching a sign stating “Hand Grenades for Sale.” The drink of home for the locals, but leave several in a spell. This is how Bourbon Street lives only during the night.
hands strum, feet dance
sloppy faces and po’boys
flavors of Bourbon Street