TUESDAY; A Poem

TUESDAY

There ought to be a parade.

I should have a houseful of
guests from out of town
sleeping on my floor.

We should be hording
quarters for les flambeaux
and catching such fleeting
glimpses of such fanciful
Indians (black skin and
yellow bugle beads and
rhinestones and pink ostrich
feathers looking like they just
might kick your ass before
they vanish into the dewy
morning) that we question
the wisdom of tequila with
breakfast and wake-up
bongloads.

We should be sinning as an
act of faith, doing something
worthy of forty days of
atonement, worthy of our
Savior’s pain.

We should be on our knees
in the street with our heads
under the bleachers and our
asses in the air, digging in
that gutter dirt (from whence
we came, they will remind
us, tomorrow) and muck for
a strand of plastic beads.

There should be tourists to
fuck, cute girls from yankee
colleges, with navel rings and
loud laughs. And oysters,
there ought to be oysters on
the half shell and french fry
po’boys and boiled crawfish
and baked macaroni and free
red beans.

But it’s just Tuesday.