Matthew JohnsonI ripped apart Mr. Lincoln’s soul,
And let Satchmo’s left-behind notes
Drift in the atmosphere;
The music tastes even sweeter
When mixed with the aroma of jambalaya soufflés
And blackened catfish smoke.
I come from big-band jazz.
I come from sent-south Negroes, and Old Death,
For who knows the number of innocents
Forgotten under the Antebellum homes of the French Quarter.
I am home.
I sip from the thousand-tale Delta
And bear my flood water and Cajun parades proudly;
Home here is melting-pot gumbo and tossing around a weekend football.
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