The Finish Line
It is raining something good,
the streets are soaked with puddles
that grow deeper, larger and darker
with each clap of thunder.
Lightning flashes
as quickly as the beginning of the storm itself.
Tourists don’t know what to do
except run into tourist shops
to buy overpriced ponchos—
another keepsake from their trip.
Wow! You would not believe
how hard it rains there!
Look at the ponchos we got,
it says Bourbon Street on it!
At The Boondock Saint
they are currently playing rockabilly
which, in a twisted way,
seems to rage against the weather,
with its upbeat rhythms of cars
racing around tracks
or dark roads at night for pink slips,
sounds of squealing rubber around curves.
I’m just not in the mood
for hot rod songs tonight.
I’m better suited to slow floating
or fast rising water songs.
Sea shanties and the like.
Songs of the open sea,
crashing boat beats and notes that float.
The tunes that can make one feel
relaxation or menace,
depending on one’s situation.
So, I order another drink and a shot
and I begin to sing,
drowning myself in liquor—
sheltered from the storm for now,
where I’ll just wait this out
until I get calm waves
or a checkered flag.
Horror Sleaze Trash 