Death of a Pirate

William Miller 

For two hot weeks he had pinned tourists

to the walls of charming old houses,

threatened locals with his sword outside

their favorite bars, the Lucky Dog stand.

One nutty eye leered beneath 

the pulled-down brim of his cockade hat.

He had no name, was just “the pirate”

or that “crazy pirate bastard”.  

Harmless enough, even though he wore

in a black and gold scabbard

a real honed, cutting sword.  On the hottest day

ever recorded in New Orleans,

he hectored the wrong homeless man

who stabbed him to death with three

quick thrusts of a prison shank.

Garbage men muttered, Japanese couples

snapped pics.  A pirate in a town where pirates

prospered and kept alive with smuggled rum

slaves from banned countries, he kept some kind

of faith.  Like all street performers, he gave

the crowd what they came to see,

traveled so far to post to their friends

back home.  His blood was extra,

more than what they paid for.