tradition…—… *antebellum ghosts wandering the streets looking for a tasty morsel, the swish of ball gowns and the flutter of evangeline eye lashes, the faint echo…’throw me something mister’, a city washed in blood but too late for confession*

smell…—… *jasmine saturated nights, spices on boil, chicory coffee brewing, the smell of a hurricane ready for landfall*

touch…—…*her sticky wetness, that little love/hate thing that pings your heart when you’re away and makes you want to catch the next bus out, the sweat running down your body as that squeeky fan overhead gives its all but never wins, et al ];-)*

sound…—… *that lazy dialect that sounds so good rollin off the lips of a creole lady but can be so guttural it just wants to make you scream, musical notes creeping around the corner like a crit du chat, a barge horn amplified by the low fog that’s settled during the night, the rain tap dancing on the roof*

taste…—…*indescribable*