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I'm afraid this is a regionalism, but it's a delicious one (to me). The last line fell from the lips of a sailor who was in the habit of saying perfect things without noticing, so I stole it while he was drunk. Extra points if you get it!

If only my body were built for tourists,
I would open my rococo gates for the crowd below.
Or for one man,
Taking decades to remove each feather mask.
But my bricks cracked before they were baked
And I reside in the Slidell of my heart.

Wet harmonica kisses and now drunken sailors

I'm not sure if I 'got' what you intended, but I like the idea of comparing one's heart to the intimacy of a small town, and being fond of ambiguity, I like that the poem could be either a small town used as metaphor for the narrator's longings, or, narrator's longings used as metaphor for a small town...

I've come back to this several times now - this is such a unique poem.
Like imaginary, I imagine it to be both a woman and a town speaking - perhaps during carnival or a masquerade ball.

I would open my rococo gates for the crowd below.
Or for one man,

I love the images that hit me here ... 'or for one man'

Well, my Slidell is perhaps more cynical than Imaginary Friend's. But as long as I'm giving you some sort of Slidell, I count that as a win.