Poem: January 16, 2019

Gumbo

The first thing you need to know is that Gumbo
is a place to go, a journey, a place that only the locals know.
It can be a quiet road that's slow and winding, a long
hot walk in the dusty sun, a heavy stroll toward home.
And you can take that road like a meditation.
You can close your eyes and hum real low, and
fill your lungs with the great green air and
get to know your footsteps, steady, heel and toe. You know
you'll get there, and your shadow will, too, as the sun
makes its way, light peanut butter to chocolate roux.
You've got the time for the Gumbo that fills the holes
that life digs in you. Stir the pot and you stir your soul.

Now there's another way to Gumbo that you should know
because some days are buzzing before you start and you
can't go alone on days like those. No, you'll need some
sizzle, a little Zydeco. So throw in some extra pepper
and take the road that's lined with porches and open
doors. Just follow the sound of the drums and horns.
Fair warning, this road is just as long, but when you go,
your crowd goes, too. A little more shade, a little more
room. You won't feel your feet when you dance down
this street to the Gumbo music by the Gumbo moon.
True, there's the Trinity and the roux, but there's
andouille and okra and Tabasco, too. Some days
you need the neighborhoods and some days the pews.