Wing Snack

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,

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.