Carmen Barefield
Parkway and Po' Boys
My sister says this place
has the best po’ boys.
The line wraps around
from the corner to the door.
She can’t be wrong.
So, we stand there,
the air thick with heat
as gray clouds sneak
past blue skies.
Wouldn’t be New Orleans
if the threat of rain didn’t
come out to greet us.
We reach the door
Gilmore Tennessee bricks
beneath our feet.
The wood roof slants, and
the patio is adorned in tarp.
Full and faded beige plastic
tables and chairs
encircle an old car on display.
Customers laugh and smile
between sips of beer
and bites of hot sausage.
What little sun is left
beams and fractures
through water filled
double ziplock bags
lining the patio.
They hang on fish hooks
and sway like wind chimes.
My sister’s friend laughs at me,
“Girl, that’s a country thing.
Keeps the flies away.”
The line moves up.
We finally order.
And as my sister and her friend
laugh along without me,
the copper glints from
corners of each zip locked bag,
catches me right in the eye
and I float closer to them with the heat.
They must be pennies,
but they remind me of
goldfish won at the local fair
dead by the time you get home.
My sister smiles as
we turn the corner,
hot sausage po’ boys in hand.
A few wild chickens race past us
and the colorful shotgun houses.
We sit on the sidewalk
taking bites of our po’ boys.
The storm clouds keep rolling in,
the heat swells around us.
I can smell the rain between each bite,
but it never falls.
has the best po’ boys.
The line wraps around
from the corner to the door.
She can’t be wrong.
So, we stand there,
the air thick with heat
as gray clouds sneak
past blue skies.
Wouldn’t be New Orleans
if the threat of rain didn’t
come out to greet us.
We reach the door
Gilmore Tennessee bricks
beneath our feet.
The wood roof slants, and
the patio is adorned in tarp.
Full and faded beige plastic
tables and chairs
encircle an old car on display.
Customers laugh and smile
between sips of beer
and bites of hot sausage.
What little sun is left
beams and fractures
through water filled
double ziplock bags
lining the patio.
They hang on fish hooks
and sway like wind chimes.
My sister’s friend laughs at me,
“Girl, that’s a country thing.
Keeps the flies away.”
The line moves up.
We finally order.
And as my sister and her friend
laugh along without me,
the copper glints from
corners of each zip locked bag,
catches me right in the eye
and I float closer to them with the heat.
They must be pennies,
but they remind me of
goldfish won at the local fair
dead by the time you get home.
My sister smiles as
we turn the corner,
hot sausage po’ boys in hand.
A few wild chickens race past us
and the colorful shotgun houses.
We sit on the sidewalk
taking bites of our po’ boys.
The storm clouds keep rolling in,
the heat swells around us.
I can smell the rain between each bite,
but it never falls.
Commentary
Carmen on "Parkway and Po' Boys":
I remember starting this poem while sitting in the Louis Armstrong airport. I was already missing New Orleans before I’d even gotten on a plane, and I wanted to write down as much as I could.
I had flown down to visit my sister, who was attending Xavier University at the time. It had been a while since I’d last been down to visit. Though our dad was born and raised there, our visits had been sporadic, especially after Hurricane Katrina.
Sometimes a few images or lines pop up in your mind before you really know what a poem will look like as a whole. Writing this poem was definitely like that, but I knew I wanted to capture the nostalgic craving I'd been feeling. A craving for food, for connection, for family, and a place that feels like home. It was a moment I didn’t want to lose to the haze of heat and time so I started writing. I’m thankful I have the opportunity to share that moment and this poem with readers too.
I remember starting this poem while sitting in the Louis Armstrong airport. I was already missing New Orleans before I’d even gotten on a plane, and I wanted to write down as much as I could.
I had flown down to visit my sister, who was attending Xavier University at the time. It had been a while since I’d last been down to visit. Though our dad was born and raised there, our visits had been sporadic, especially after Hurricane Katrina.
Sometimes a few images or lines pop up in your mind before you really know what a poem will look like as a whole. Writing this poem was definitely like that, but I knew I wanted to capture the nostalgic craving I'd been feeling. A craving for food, for connection, for family, and a place that feels like home. It was a moment I didn’t want to lose to the haze of heat and time so I started writing. I’m thankful I have the opportunity to share that moment and this poem with readers too.
Biography
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Carmen Barefield (she/her) is a poet and writer living in Salem, Massachusetts. Some of her work can be found in Popshot Magazine, Poetry Quarterly, Black Heart, and littledeathlit. You can find out more about her at carmenbarefield.com.
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