What became apparent in the French Quarter–
what brought me there– wasn’t shattered glass
bottles on Bourbon Street, but that all actors

must at some point visit, then become so
wasted everyone laughs before fearing what
they might do next. Still, I drank the days

then sang Psycho Killer at a karaoke bar
so dehydrated I collapsed from back spasms
because I wasn’t enough myself,

and DJ Mud stopped the song when I fell
on the floor writhing. I told him to go
on and everyone howled as they

waited for me to stand on my own
and cheered when I did. Someone
bought me another drink

and I walked out through drunken
tourists and cops on horseback
into the middle of the street

near the end of a long road trip
that burned through my savings
to land me renting a room in a

house where each day I wake
still drifting and dreaming.

(originally published in Pomona Valley Review, Summer 2020)