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I could have any drink in the world
but nostalgia brings me back to this one.
My memory three days old. Strong
and old.
We walk down Bourbon Street and
a swingers parade has broken out.
You have to be invited to
go to the after party.
It is a Wednesday, so naturally
the party on this street is in full swing.
Beads rain out of the sky. Barriers
don't block the intersections but
cars wouldn't dare go down it.
Every restaurant and strip club
and music salon personally
invites us in. We're just here
for the memories and they stop at
Canal Street where there never was
a canal. Here at the house of
our libations the bartenders grow
strong muscles performing their
gin fizzes. One is being shaken for me.
It will travel to our table on an animal
that is somewhere between
a horse and a mule. Bred this way
to tolerate these late hours. Here it comes.
Here it is. Tomorrow I'll be in states that
don't understand the word parish.
I only got it this week. You can
learn anything if someone tells
it to you. Oh, the things I will tell
people when I cross the mountains
where the air has no water. Where my cats
will come out from under the bed and say
where have you been? Don't do that again.
But I will.
copyright 2017
Rick
Lupert |
