Poetry: Skirting Lake Pontchartrain by David Rodriguez

Skirting Lake Pontchartrain


It counteracts gloom:

this late the sails

backlit in sunglow

stand like bascules

along the Maestri

Bridge, the sleep

of each boater deep

with rum and fruit

juice. Tonight, I

cannot join them,

so I cut west into

the wind past Eden

Isle, through lagoon

and marsh and lake,

past the Irish Bayou

Castle shaded in

vermilion and the far

boundary of New

Orleans East and

its crumbling beauty,

into Versailles, their

Vietnamese bakeries

now closing though

the smell of overnight

bread carries. From

the I-10 High Rise,

our modest skyline

always shimmers as

day lies down to

night, in the scattered

hues of evening, the

breathfall of dark

becoming new light.

The internet would

caption this “mood,”

but a better title would

be “blood type.”


David Rodriguez is a writer and teacher based in New Orleans with an MFA from Florida State University. His work has previously been published in the New Orleans Review, The Southeast Review, and The Double Dealer Redux, among other places.