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dare i celebrate (in true mardi gras style), while others wait in deepenin shades of sorrow?

(second lines of hot/ hungry/thirsty/weary folk watch the music leave the quarter they sang about, notes of purple/green/ yellow abandonin the city they once loved, wonderin if they'll have a home to go home to.)

and all i can do is sit in air conditioned comfort, writin sad poems of my own traumas that i'm goin through (worries about friends and if they are all okay, wonderin if they made it) ...

concerns that mean NUTHIN to those singin the blues in cesspools of violence -- talk about selfish