The Next Morning

Party’s over. But the city seems okay with that.

Two young men in their party suits walk home, to-go-cup still in hand, as the sun and a breeze slink up from the Mississippi.

The bum that usually takes in a huge visual helping of my ass as I bike past him barely manages a wink. He, along with all the other lechers got more than their fill last night.

My bike hits an empty Southern Comfort bottle, sending it chattering across Frenchmen street, which emanates a smell of piss and crawfish into the morning steam.

The SDT cleanup crews are already hacking away at the trash, but the confetti that found its way onto doorsteps will pay tribute for another week or so.

And if you’re hungover or just a little late to the office today, well ... we’re all in the same boat this morning -- it ain't no thing.