Near the Iberville Projects,
where my mom grew up,
there is the Wing Snack
and the Brown Derby
No. 2 Liquor Store.
I want to stand outside,
drink ice cold beers,
hidden by tiny, brown bags,
and shoot the shit.
I want to yell “Hey baby”
at the young girls.
I want to ask:
“You stay here now?” and
“How’s ya mamma?”
But, because:
I don’t sound like here,
I don’t look like here,
I don’t smell like here,
anymore,
anymore,
it’s too late for all of that.
I cannot
authentically
move backwards
through the distance
between me
and my history.
I can only look out the car window
with the doors locked.
