The words of the night smell like gasoline
and the only evidence,
the singed fingertips
and numb lips,
are lost to black stretches of highway
between New Orleans and nowhere
I apologize
to myself for whispering
when I should shout
and forgetting what the street musicians
rattle and sing about
and for dropping my last ten dollars
into a hat on Canal St.
and the only evidence,
the singed fingertips
and numb lips,
are lost to black stretches of highway
between New Orleans and nowhere
I apologize
to myself for whispering
when I should shout
and forgetting what the street musicians
rattle and sing about
and for dropping my last ten dollars
into a hat on Canal St.
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