Before the Rain

Pixabay

Dateline Gentilly. Fell asleep at my writing table again. Slumped over the inkwell, as it were. Leapt up, overturned my bamboo seat, awash in sweat. There was that image yet again– that damnable, that infernal grayish greasy wall of water. I’d guess ’twere twenty feet of high brackish gunk. And we ain’t talkin’ Limpopo River. Maybe Bywater, maybe the fact of all of City Park, dunked.

Likewise the Fair Grounds, and it wouldn’t have limited the damage to the horse stock. I’m worried about the musicians–ALL the musicians. Did I really dream that Fats’ big gold grand piano, and his platinum disks for “Blueberry Hill,” and “Fat Man,” “I Want To Walk You Home” and such– bobbing up and down, drenched in mud?

Nah–not possible. Just a crazy dream. Had to go out and perambulate a bit. Hooh! Bright, BLAY-zin’ sun all around. White and hot. Not a drop of rain in sight. Boy! That’s good. Strolled down Carrollton, over to Canal. A burnin’ aluminum bench. Alone but for a little lady in pigtails and a print -flowered dress. “I’m bored, mister,” she sighed.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

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