New Orleans Sunday Morning Poem by Tony Walton

The morning sun peeks
into this hotel room above bourbon street
our silent breaths take shape
hers, and mine

Radiant silver glowing on her thighs
it is a fleeting bond, fragile and drying

a fog as sweet as farm milk
floats above the cigarette butts
on the sidewalks below

and the janitors come in trucks
and wash the liquored streets
with latte steam

her blonde mane falls across my chest
and if I stepped out of my body right now
I would break into a blossom.