essay: #047 Ghost Town
It begins as an ache.
Next, comes the flashback.
Stark and disturbing.
Of the photograph, of the man.
Belongs to no one in particular.
Just floating, really.
Through the toxic aftermath of Ghost Town.
Formerly known as New Orleans.
So sad, these unfolding chapters.
These apocalyptic times.
Brings a lump to my throat.
Makes me raw and fucking sentimental.
Third World poverty reflected in the murky depths.
Of a once hedonistic city.
E-coli bacteria in the water.
And refuse of human remains.
Today, a fullstop.
People are talking:
"I'm scared right now...What's next?"
"Plague, pestilence and the four goddamn horsemen..."
I offer with a wry grin.
I wonder about that man.
And how he ended up as floatsam in the food chain.
Deserted, in his hour of need.
I want to forget I ever made his acquaintance.
Sobering and heartbreaking as it was.
Decomposing before our very eyes.
Our scrutiny and curiosity ever so human.