Purple Rain

When the world starts to view love as a natural disaster
sometimes the storm passes. 

And sometimes … it is Katrina, 

and I am the French Quarter. 
flooding corridors 
and filtering through urine soaked floors;
a whirlpool of recklessness. 

Higher ground like  – excuses. 
Refusing to leave, 
I am the native of New Orleans – 
who is standing on the rooftop, 
waiting on a miracle, 
waiting on a rainbow
always WAITING for things to dry out.
Maybe everything comes undone
and maybe good love is never good enough
and maybe a rainbow is just refracted light –
bent through a tear drop
suspended in the sky

And maybe even years after things become dry …
the jazz trumpet halts in the French Quarter
because New Orleans will always hold her breath when there’s thunder.
And maybe one day we won't have to wonder
whether we can weather the rain.