Poem

His memory follows me past the Jackson Square fortunetellers

huddled in lawn chairs behind their card tables.

St. Louis Cathedral tones the quarter hour.

It follows me in the dark and cobbled lane

as I head up to Bourbon Street,

There I drink a fluorescent pink Hurricane

from a giant plastic cup,

still, I can’t shake him.

Along Bourbon the crowd jostles me.

I don’t resist and am carried along.

Neon shouts:

“Exotic Sex Acts . . . Men & Women”

“Big Ass Beers to Go”

“Unbelievable Female Impersonators”

I stop at a take-out window for another drink.

Swept along by the mob again,

the drinks finally kick in.

I swim through zydeco, jazz, and blues.

Revelers dance on tables.

A drummer sits in a high window,

his arms moving like a psychotic windmill.

I stop at another take-out window

for drink number three,

one last attempt to wipe my memory clean.

I’m caught in a gumbo of music and lights

A stranger grabs me,

spins me around,

kisses me and says,

“This place is great!”

I’m pushed in the direction I just came from,

I don’t care, and if I did, would it matter?

Passing the Lucky Dog stand,

I turn and weave towards my hotel.

Once there, the bed is big and empty.

I fall onto it spread like a starfish.

Floating on the waves of oblivion

I drift on their surface

until there is the nothing I’ve been seeking.