I suppose it’s a strange thing
to say I miss the smell of the streetcar
brakes during those late afternoon strolls
down St. Charles, the Victorian mansions
pressing against trees laced with
beads of Mardi Gras past.

The odor wasn’t particularly pleasant,
but neither was the heavy heat
during those sluggish August months,
a memory that now summons
pleasurable images of strawberry daiquiris
dripping icy condensation between my fingers
while barges inch down Mark Twain’s muse.

And if I follow my nose,
I will surely find a mountain of crawfish, corn,
and red potatoes atop a checkered table,
frosted mugs of Abita and Dixie standing guard
at either side of the feast.

I choose to finish this poem as that aroma
wafts through my mind,
firmly transporting my heart back
to The Big Easy,
the city where the purest love
bested a woman named Katrina.