Snitch: A Stuck Inside Poem, Day 5

I don’t want to sound like a snitch

but there’s a crawfish boil on the corner

and I’m uncomfortable with it.

There’s a corner of the internet for people

who think the government wants everybody

to go inside so they can change the batteries

in the pigeons. Tracy’s St. Paddy’s Day celebration

will be seen the same as Milan’s “Milan

Doesn’t Stop” campaign if green beer

drinkers on Magazine Street

ever land on the New York Times front page.

Unlock your safe search and Google

the tarp at the Hard Rock. It worries me

that New Orleans already knows how to hide

a body. Your daddy’s brother’s son

works at the state department.

He had to polish his guns

before the trade embargo.

Nobody puts baby in a corner and his babies

are firearms. He’s a tired mom who may not

like all his rifles but he loves them just the same.

Three corners of America would rather him not

bring an assault weapon to Wal-Mart. 

That’s how it all starts.

Some of y’all are live-tweeting your divorce

with reality and that’s chill.  And I’m trying

to figure out if it’s uncouth to ask the homies

for a record deal during this madness so I guess

we’re stuck in the same vitamin capsule. 

It’s all good if you can’t bring yourself

to Marie-Kondo the door of your fridge.  If you want to hold

that yellow mustard for a few more weeks,

if the Goopification of your spice rack

is not on your list of priorities,

we are in the same boat wreck/hoarder’s nest.

If you want to put off a shower

until you get really cheesy, stay stank,

my friend.

It’s overwhelming to want to help and not

be able to lessen the strain.  My shrink called

and said we could telecommute if I wanted

to continue our sessions. Her heart

was in the right place.  It was over the phone

instead of under her skin.