Porch Pirates by William Miller

Once, boats on the river were floating prey
for fast schooner Turks who stole whiskey, playing cards,
even slaves. Now the barges are driven by one man,
a skeleton crew, a computer that sounds depths,
knows the tides better than any old salt.
But we adjust to time. In the Crescent City,
greed never takes a holiday. Today, every porch
is a cargo deck and all packages are contraband
anyone on foot, bicycle or stolen car can claim
for free. Up and down Poydras
or further north on Louisa, no home is safe
in spite of video doorbells, crime cameras
on telephone poles that scan with one black eye
the landscape of theft. The booty is whatever
can be pawned, resold or simply tossed
in the grass if it has no resale value. Watches,
perfume, I-Phones go quickly, even cancer drugs
if the pharmacy is open to a backdoor bargain,
the expiration date checks out. Nothing changes here;
slow-burning summer is the one season
we all suffer, the same sun that shone
on black men in iron collars, the pirates
who pinched a dozen then sold them back for a quick profit.
In the city that forgot to care, ghosts breed ghosts--
every hand is a grappling hook.