We parked Whitey on Oceano,
walked across the bridge to the
poetry reading where
white chairs lined the balcony–
like the wedding I attended after
smoking Salvia with the
and behind the stage
the east side of the city glowed,
crooning the odious night,
and the abandoned felines of Milpas Street.
The violins screamed.
Smothered the first poet’s sad sad story
of her husband’s unexpected demise.
(It was the screams that delayed my sleep, saved it for later)
The second poet’s red glasses rested on her nose as she
read with only the nights’ serenade,
(No screaming violins bellowing like A Dying Witch).
When the reading ended
we walked across the bridge where Whitey waited–
Smoked cigarettes from a blue box
with a picture of an Indian on front,
smoking a peace pipe as her frail inked up finger
wrapped around my leather sleeve.
We opened Whitey’s door
Climbed in, then…
Lit a joint
Started the engine
Made a left
Made a right
Rolled past the blue house with the rotting corpse,
and half painted gate.
And the decay of spring crawled swiftly up our noses.
(Along with the salty windy sea);
We parked Whitey when we got home and
listened to the clicks and the clacks,
finished our smokes then
read some Faulkner,
crawled into bed and closed our eyes.
A half hour later I
opened the blue box with the Indian still on the front.
Still smoking his peace pipe,
(Right after we made quick, Invincible Love).
*The pictures I don’t know who the photographers are but the poem “Decay of Spring” is mine, and I won $400 in the Emmons Poetry Contest of 2016 for 2nd place. A very exciting moment for any poet or writer to earn that kind of money for one single poem. So honored – thanks for reading if you’ve read past these adorable cats.