I miss Louisiana.

It’s not the people–

It’s running through the corn field.

The cool, tall bends of grass.

Walking on damp asphalt,

Beneath the dark, deep sky.

I,

I miss Peach Festival ice cream.

The,

Heavy breeze of still, muggy air

And Sun-kissed honey hair.

Speckled stars,

The pine needles on dashboards,

Apples, oranges and peppermints at Christmas,

And prickly,

Ruffles of Easter socks.

Sitting high on broad shoulders

To the EZ-Mart

Or long strolls to the park.

The,

Antenna needing constant adjusting,

The TV, them Saints,

Martha Ruth on the phone talmbout: Mm-hmm,

A connection to

Me,

Watching with wide-eyed, viewing otherworldly dreams,

Warm pancakes, Crisco biscuits, or

Margarine-broiled toasts with

Soft, peppered eggs

Preserves of figs, muscadine

Held in a damp pantry

Tide rumbling atop the washer

A hanging, single lamp

The hum of mosquitos, dancing in the halo.

That feeling,

Held on the porch,

In the rhythm,

In the parades’ sounds—

Self,

Sitting on the step

Or the wooden swing outside,

Where the sweet sugar is near.

Spring, when the shutters were red.