A Song For New Orleans
by Phyllis Stump
March 12, 2008
Someone asked me
if I had written a poem
about our work in New Orleans
(and it was only Monday!)
I said, "No, but I'll try."
So here I am,
after dinner on Wednesday
reconstructing the thoughts
that ran through my head
all Tuesday night, such as:
we won't remember everyone's name,
but we won't forget Mack
and his passion for a new-found game,
of giving back to ease the pain
of losing so much.
We won't remember each other's faces
or the dates of the places we passed on the way.
To the sad gray building
where we arrived that day
to discover why we were here.
But we'll remember the myriad shades of green
that turned that tired old structure
into a beacon of light,
where good things could happen to good people.
We won't remember all the facts or the history,
the architecture, the reasons behind the flood,
or the difference between upper and lower river,
but we'll remember scraping paint, hammering nails,
cutting lumber and digging weeds,
accompanied by aching backs, cuts and scrapes,
and just plain tired muscles we didn't know we still had.
We won't remember what or who we didn't take a shine to,
but we'll remember college kids who came to help
from all over, giving up their spring break.
And the people who stopped to say, "Thank You,"
when we were the ones who were thankful,
for the feeling of being one of them, even for a short while.
Six short days ago, we were separate beings,
whirling along on this needy planet,
now we are a community
and each one of you has become a part of the poem
I'm trying to write.
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