Chicano Poet

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Henry’s Elegy For The Death Of The Blues

The winds are howling
and the rain is flying horizontal,
the lights go out

but I think we have survived.
Next day water is flooding
the neighborhood up to the rooftops.

We make it to the attic,
my son kicks as hard as he can
until he breaks through

and we climb onto the roof
though he has trouble dragging
my large sixty year-old body through the hole.

We’re wet, no drinking water, no food,
with just the clothes on our backs.
We see the helicopters flying overhead

but after two days nobody helps us.
We grab an empty canoe that’s floating by.
We hear from others

that we should head for the Superdome.
No food, no water there either.
Finally my heart gives out.

My son wraps me up in white trash bags
and I can’t see anymore
When The Saints Come Marching In.


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