Drink Me

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?