Email Poem

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Poem

New Orleans is for night walkers
Ghost watchers, voodoo challengers
Sleep walkers carrying wine bottles 
inside crumpled brown paper bags
Bourbon Street is ready for you.

I am here on a whim, finding my real self
My soul self that has been dead for two years
The one I left in Detroit one summer eve.
I linger in a white bed with fluffy pillows,
more than I deserve but less than I expected.

I am alone, for finding myself is encumbered enough
Without an audience or company. Smirk Smirk.
I have signed up for a midnight ghost walk but my age is calling.
I want a nap and it is only eight thirty. 
I am pathetic now.

I used to be fun loving and creative and daring.
Now I am sluggish, sloth-like, a turtle walker.
I would slow them down; I reach for the phone to call
But it is up high and I am down here.
Holding a sign that says drink me, but the magic potion is up there too.
Higher than I can reach.

I try to scream but nothing comes out.
What kind of a dream is this anyway?
A pink rabbit wearing a red fez sashays past me.
Is this a rabbit hole then?

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