It’s Sunrise in New Orleans

I

In our pocket-sized holiday apartment on Bourbon Street
you fasten the red lace bra you ripped off me last night,
while the neon lights below burned orange and electric blue.
Now dawn spins the sidewalks into gold,
you kneel at my feet, as though I were Erzuile herself,
and pull silk panties over my reddened cheeks,
and glide sheer stockings back up my thighs,
and buckle my nude, patent court shoes.
Thank you…