Last Ride

Back of a bike, New Orleans.

Piss-soaked sidewalks hardly smelt.

Catch one note from the jazz of a tuba,

Hear it drag in the sun-drenched wind.

Puke falls from a red pub window. “Splat”

sounds like “crack.”

Face bends to the back of a helmet,

morphed mouth saying “slow down”, “slow down”