New Orleans

This old burg is cut into halves
In several ways: half booze, half food,
Sprinkled with music freshly milled;
But this too: in the cracks between halves,
Between lavish lounges and touristy dives,
Between genteel bistros and sammich shops,
There's a heck of a lot of desperation,
A stain that's never washed away
By early-morning scrubber trucks
Or drumming bursts of tepid rain--
Thus a reputation for unrestrained joy
Is counterweighted with sober tones.
Mind that you always watch your step,
For a derelict may block your path,
Passed out from rotgut revelries.
Is that fellow dead or merely dozing?
They're quite like bricks dislodged by roots,
All strewn about to trip you up,
To throw you toward the stinkin' grate,
To anoint you with the city's grit.