Walking Home in the Marigny

I remember walking down the street  

With my sister by my side, holding  

A small Christmas tree, needle-green,  

That we got from Mr. Samuels' yard.  

The night air smelled of distant jazz  

And jambalaya simmering in pots.  

We carried that tree like stolen treasure,  

Its pine scent mingling with the city’s  

Old smells of decay and hope,  

Past hidden courtyards and empty spaces.  

Streetlights flickered like tired stars,  

Casting ghosts onto cracked pavements.  

Our footsteps whispered ancient secrets,  

As if the sidewalks had grown wise.  

Navigating between shadows and light,  

New Orleans laid out like an open wound,  

And our small tree, a bandage of green,  

Made us believe in small miracles,  

Enough to keep walking with our load,  

All the way to our house in the Marigny.