(edited to third person- maybe I’ll write a chapbook of memories referring to myself in third person)
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he walked all night
in the French Quarter
beignet sugar dust
on his coat
sat on a bench
among the homeless
watched the sun
rise over the river
listened to conversations
as if he sat on a fancy couch
in the lobby of his hotel
he smiled at a woman
in a short black dress
fishnet stockings with gaping holes
she smiled back
he wanted to be polite
listen to her story
but he had nothing
he was willing to trade
Albert rose to leave
turned his back and left
8-3-21
My husband's poetry 
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