My old neighborhood had streets

Well worn, trodden into my memory
Through years of walking across them
The purple house that was
Next door, and the
Gray house, now painted orange
On the other side
With the gate between
Our house and theirs
Often pushed open by
Enthusiastic dogs

Down the street was
Mr. Leonard’s house and
My parents would go there
To watch the football game
And eat gumbo and
Farther down was the
Overpriced bakery with the
Cupcakes with too much icing

When spring was still too cold to
Actually be called such
And the weather was gloomy
And clouds weren’t confident enough
To turn the drizzled rain
Into a thunderstorm
And the cold soaked through your
Fingers and your pockets could
Never really warm them up --
That was when the Highland Parade
Marched through my neighborhood

It always went through
My neighborhood, and it
Never was quite as grand as
The other parades but somehow
It was always better, because
I saw people I knew riding
On homemade floats and throwing
Plastic necklaces that sparkled
In the air, and always got caught
In the branches of the tress
No matter how carefully they threw them

And even though
We would all turn our backs
When the men marched through
Carrying the Confederate flag
Through the streets
And afterward, the grown-ups
Would argue with those men
Over the phone, and ask why
They did that every year

Even though there were
Those men marching through
And it soured that bit,
The parade always brought
Festivities and people visiting

And beforehand, the adults went to the
Mardi Gras Ball all dressed in
Silly costumes while the kids
Of the neighborhood stayed home
And ate pizza while watching whatever
Was on cable at the orange house next door

And then the next morning we would
All go to Mr. Boz’s restaurant that used to
Be a car garage and we would
Eat beignets at two tables pushed together and
Half of us would be smooshed up against the wall
And Mr. Boz would give us hugs when we got
Up to leave

And now that I have left there
I often miss the
Kindness and the old friends that
I grew up with, in the house I lived
My whole life in
And when I walk down the
Streets of my old neighborhood
It never feels quite right because
Although Mr. Leonard still invites
People over to watch football and
Mr. Boz still hugs me when I see him
The orange house next door is empty
And overgrown
And the family next door has moved on
And I have to realize that
The time I spent in my neighborhood --
The only liberal neighborhood in Shreveport --
Has come to an end