Poem: Bourbon and Donuts

At Cafe du Monde we sat with coffee
laughing at the drunks stumbling 
their way through Jackson Square
while we smiled liquid grins dripping
with booze, lust, and powdered sugar
our own visions swirling in porcelain masks 
green, gold, and purple perfectly fragile
in their delicacy worn askew by revelers
cracking from ear to ear in a pantomime
grinning stupidly at the facade we maintained
that we had found somewhere to belong
at least until aspirin and mimosas in the AM
with plane tickets clinched in hands we need
to hold us steady as we walk tilting hallways
grasping with hands that refuse to listen
at what happened and why it was great
as our memories refuse to be coaxed out
of sickly sweet cages made of hurricanes
locked with kisses and questionable decisions
to the quiet recollections in the morning after
when dawn has fully broke the masks we wore
and we’re left picking up the pieces trying
to reassemble an impossible puzzle

Copyright © 2021 TJS Sherman All rights reserved.

12 thoughts on “Poem: Bourbon and Donuts

  1. Whenever I look at your poetry, I am first instilled with envious bitterness at how elegantly you put to words feelings and experiences I have also experienced in kind, but that usually softens to a quiet admiration of your quality of work. I raise a glass of stifling regret to you, and though your experiences were clearly discomforting, I hope to see more of your inspired works through it.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I appreciate your kind words. Writing daily, I sometimes get something right. It was a good experience though, I lost some blood to the city with no idea how it happened, but I didn’t let it slow my experience. We bleed, we learn, and we move on. Cheers!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Made me instantly think of this:
    “All the world’s a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players;
    They have their exits and their entrances,
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His acts being seven ages.”
    I enjoyed your poem!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Meanwhile, I’m over here looking at my writing and recollections:
      “Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
      That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
      And then is heard no more. It is a tale
      Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
      Signifying nothing.”

      Thank you for your kind comparison!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. True, but I find it quite freeing to live as if it means nothing to anyone but me.

        “If we shadows have offended,
        Think but this, and all is mended,
        That you have but slumbered here
        While these visions did appear.
        And this weak and idle theme,
        No more yielding but a dream….”

        Liked by 1 person

      2. This is my poem about a Crow… and Life in general. I hear you. 😉

        Call me what you wish,
        I sing for no one.
        Melodies?
        Banal ; Humdrum.
        You’ll note once I complain
        Ruffling feathers and casting doubts,
        Then I’ll disappear.
        You’re left to study the remains.
        My cleverness needs no color.
        Primed and proud,
        I’m purposefully fearless.
        Notice, as I notice you.
        A shadow with a sharp eye,
        Unashamed to fly,
        Confident enough to walk.
        Call me what you wish,
        I sing for no one.

        Liked by 1 person

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