Lunch At Bro’s

Poem By Richard Quinby

Today I had lunch at Bro’s,
a little Cajun restaurant
a few miles down
from my house
on Charlotte Pike
Just reading the menu;
Etoufee,
Boudin,
Gumbo,
Jambalaya
The spicy smells coming
from the kitchen,
Zydeco music
on the radio,
the chef’s Cajun accent as he greeted regulars
brought back memories
of New Orleans.

The Crescent City,
steeped in history and decadence,
smelling of the river and excesses
Quadroon hookers, aging drag queens,
young girls wishing it was Madras Gras
so they could hear “Show me your tits”
-not for the beads
but because they are young;
their breasts firm and full-
bare-chested men in leather chaps
young lovers walking hand-in-hand
old couples checking off another item
from their “List of Places To Go One Day”

The sounds
of horse drawn carriages
clopping down Dauphine Street
Dixie land jazz
drifting from Preservation Hall
loud drunken laughter from
packs of passing college students.

Spanish moss, draping oaks along St Charles,
The grand homes in the Garden District,
Shot-gun shacks on shabby side streets
Antique stores and shops selling tacky t-shirts
Glimpses of lush hidden courtyards
through wrought iron gates


Waking up
hung-over,
pushing through
the thick air for a breakfast of
Eggs Benedict and Bloody Maries.
Hurricanes for lunch
and BBQ Shrimp at Two Sisters
Midnight at Café De Monde
that thick
rich,
sweet,
milk laced coffee.

New Orleans,
that sultry Southern
city
now sadly savaged by
natures' fury.
The streets I wandered drunk
now underwater.
Streets once filled with revelers
now filled with looters.
I miss your smells,
your sights
and sounds.

(9/9/05)

Comments about Lunch At Bro’s

Ric, I just read this to David and he remeberd y'all at New Orleans and wanted to know why he was not remembered in your poem? ?


Rating Card

1,8 out of 5
2 total ratings

Other poems of QUINBY

A Poem Never Written

I found your panties
tangled in
my sheets
and

Nocturnal Longings

It has become a pattern;
each night I sit here at my desk
writing,
delaying going to our

A Passing Phase?

A passing phase,
Pus draining from a few
Festering sores,
A mild case of

Chimera

Their voices call to me
Old friends whispering
pleading and entreating
Their siren song

A Season Of Neglect (Revised)

Looking out my back window today
I saw what this season of neglect has done to my yard
The weeds running wild, the shrubs untrimmed
And all the flowers I so lovingly planted,

Our Cats

There’s a cat
sleeping
in my
bathroom sink.