New Orleans

It is when we don’t have any proof
And still we go on an expedition to collect
The probabilities that you are,
On the ledge of a moment that effaces,
A collective experience of beginnings
And turns one to a prized catch.
You are then almost a hypothesis
That strangely proposes that in this acclimatization
To another country, you lose a bit of yourself
And still you gain, from obscurity, the precious.
You’re just someone’s fool,
And that someone’s hero, and what makes
You foolish, is what makes you heroic.
Only when you wear the heart on your sleeve,
Do you wear around your neck, a red cape,
And on the outside, your speedos.
And when the hypothesis is proven,
You constantly feel a lump of kryptonite
Inside your throat, your unguarded lips
Swift to pounce on hers, when you’re constantly
In danger of being a hindsight,
About to conflagrate.