Miss Mae's Raised their Well Drinks to $2

Zach Bartlett

Sure the city's starting to arrest working musicians for playing too
close to businesses owned by Californians,
and they let Disney buy a straight (but quirky) guy a seat
at the head of the Pride parade,
but they're just catching up with the times.

You should've known it that August, two years ago, when some visiting
rando leaned over Aloisa's fence and shouted DID ANYBODY DIE HERE
YOU KNOW IN THE STORM and she shouted back NOT YET and he looked
so pissed that she didn't have a manager he could speak to.

Then that flood the following year got her, turned all the nice
paper from her chapbooks into a ghastly multicolor wasp nest
on her bedroom floor, and now the landlord rents it out to
bachelorette parties or people on business trips trying to have affairs
and none of them know how to tend to the jasmine and clematis her
mother planted along the fence.

Maybe it's a good thing you've had to live in a different apartment every year,
you keep saying you need to get out more and nothing gets you out of the
house better than not having a house because it's more profitable when they
STR it to different cargo-shorted guys all named Bryce each weekend
rather than rent to a local full time, especially when you do burlesque
because don't you know some people bring their children here?

A dog got hit by a slow car on Carrollton the week you moved down.
You dropped your big styrofoam cup full of red wine when you saw it
but the dog was okay and was pushing itself back onto its feet when
another car that didn't even brake sent it ragdoll onto the curb.
You were bawling and it was the last thing on your mind at that point
but you'd bet your security deposit the second car had out-of-state plates.

Tap your grief on a refurbished typewriter outside the two-story
artisanal hotdog place on Frenchmen Street. Nose down.
Save your emotional content for the tourists, some of us are trying to live here.