Me and my brother play beat games
with clapping hands and stomping feet
being a musician runs in my family
it started with my grandfather
Who had a fetish for the corner
of the French Quarter
a symphony of smells and sounds
from Cafe Du Monde beignets
To saxophone tunes of jazz and zydeco
It was nothing more than cacophony of orphaned artists
looking for their own corner of someone’s heart to find shelter in
he used to stand there and play for hours
with a heart and soul as open a his sax case
He'd take anything they had to offer
monetary tips or passing suggestions
of travelers and musicians trying to find that little
French Quarter corner of their own
When Katrina hit
we had to leave that all behind
with a car that barely held a family
the sax never made it in the emergency evacuation
when I started to cry he said
“listen suga , just cause da instrument gone
don't mean da music stop, we carry it with us."
More than 7 years later
I stand here at the corner
my grandfather never had the chance to
return to, and I try to recall
the music
but it just all seems
so quiet