I took a tour of my mortality on the streets of New Orleans where Katrina left her watermarks on the fleur de lis. And a priest picked me up, with a Uhaul truck. My sins he would hear while returning for more gear. He threw the toolbox in the rear, and said: “talk to me”. I fit in neatly, a sidekick to the stick shift. He on his way to the wealthier side of Pontchartrain and told me I should contemplate faith. While when it rains, they still panic about drowning. Here the lines are gray, like the smudge of clouds over the stadium and the seminary plantation that crowns the homeless at Burger King. And I was most at home, on the dangerous side of the street. This is a true story.