On St. Patrick’s birthday
I walked myself down Oakland Avenue
wearing a green sweater both ironically and intentionally—an action
indicative of something
my father would call
“a bad attitude”
And God, did I feel lousy.
It was the discovery of pink earrings in my pocket
And some bite marks on my neck
and a pair of Hawaiian shirts hung in my closet
that had led me to undergo a serious reconsideration
of my future career choices
Specifically: Any plans I had for ever making my own people.
But I brightened up
at a corner stop-light
an angel clad only in holy underwear
substantiated in an idle Buick La Sabre
and before disappearing
entrusted me with permanent custody of her Milwaukee Brewer’s t-shirt
which she tossed at my face through an open window.