Spotted Cat

The waitress at the Spotted Cat in
Faubourg Marigny, leans against the bar
as she tells us about Froggie’s upcoming shows.
We had spent all day
going from bar to bar trying to track down
St. Louis Slim.
He’s playing here on Saturday, she drawls
letting the sounds plunk down on the sticky bar
top like water drops.

But by Saturday we’ll be in Dallas
already thinking about Albuquerque.

She has greasy brown hair, that hangs around her face,
small breasts and a pot belly pushing against her brown
t-shirt. Her skin and eyes are baked the same color brown.
She’s the color of the muddy Mississippi
and the clay southern highways.
She has blended into her background
to become part of place that is part of her.

I stare down at my one burnt driving arm.
The other still New York pale.
She makes me a drink with a cucumber in it
and I thank her softly
trying to stop myself from imitating
her dripping vowels,
her gentle Southern cadence.