Courir de Mardi Gras

I’m gonna wear a capuchon
in the mud of Cajuns
and mock long gone nobles
with fringe of scarlet
and pistachio.

I’ll chase chickens
on horseback, go blind off
Sazeracs and feast on grand gumbo
and King cake, while throwing moon pies
from trees I climb and fighting over
which wife is mine because
I won’t recognize
her shoes.

I’m gonna dance
to the zydeco band’s accordion
in a wire mesh mask, anonymously
tap my thimble on the frottoir’s metal ribs,
slurring Le Chanson de Mardi Gras
in an Acadian accent.

And whether it’s a wine wagon
or a beer-filled flatbed,
I’ll ride it until

I give myself plenty reason
to repent.