The Big Easy

The very sound lulling,
Gently, caressing.

Not like the produce trade.
Boisterous, loud, demanding,
Sometime even profane.

Yet, maybe . . .

A sax under a street corner,
In the dark of the night
Wailing Seductively,
Come hither.

How different from
The market vendor.
In the dark of the night.
“Take a look, take a look.”
Come hither.

Business and life,
Is the call not the same?
Come hither. Come hither.

PMA itself,
In ads and in mail,
On websites and speeches,
What is the call?
Come hither.

But when we are there,
Where are we?

We hear the music.
See the luscious fruit.
Make a little business.

Life amidst a thousand siren songs.
All calling.
All to be submitted to,
Or opposed.

It is good to be in produce.
One learns even a sapling tree
Can turn the wrong way.
Learn the value of living purposefully.

Yet purpose dresses in costume,
Every day Halloween.
Do we gather for business,
Or pleasure?
Or reunion?

The Big Easy is not so easy,
To figure out.
We convene.
Faces behind the masks.
Mardi Gras.

In New Orleans.

by Jim Prevor