So, in Shreveport they have this joint called Cajun Daquiris. It is a small cinder block drive-thru building with a garish alligator (or crocodile?) mascot. You pull up to the window and order basically an alcoholic slurpee. And they come in ridiculous sizes. The middle size is 32 oz (which I stupidly ordered and am currently working my way through). You can also get a gallon (the largest size). Your daquiri comes in a lovely styrofoam cup, complete with a straw scotch-taped to the top — which also conveniently covers the straw hole, effectively side-stepping the “open container” law.
Shreveport is also home to the Superior Grill, which serves enormous frozen and ever-so-strong margaritas during happy hour — also in styrofoam. I believe Shreveport is the styrofoam capital. And potentially the cheap-mixed-drink capital.
The other amazingly awesome place we’ve visited here was CrossFit SBC, where the coach, Asa, kicked our fannies this morning. The WOD was followed by a fish fry, where some of the members brought in this propane-fired fryer and made fried catfish ON THE SPOT. There was also this amazing catfish gumbo stuff, of which I ate two bowls without blinking an eye. As I was talking up the chick who made the gumbo (and that’s not the name she gave it — I can’t remember what she called it; it had some serious French name), she happened to mention that she and her husband had caught the fish fresh out of the Red River and that the vegetables had come from her garden. I told her she wins and that I quit.
I am really digging Shreveport.
The poem I have below is a kind of depressing prose poem that is unfinished. And I know my pace has been about 1 poem for every 2 days, but that will have to do.
[No title… sheesh. I’m slack]
I saw a pregnant woman today. We passed one another in the Barnes and Noble parking lot. The bump of her navel pressed itself against her smooth white cotton T-shirt. I smiled at her, the muscles in my cheeks protesting with the poison of sadness. It seeped from my jawbone, invaded my neck, clavicle, shoulders. I looked away, thinking how she was impatient for the skin of her stomach to quit itching from the stretch. She waited to meet the person she carried. Waited to gaze into small blue eyes and inhale the scent of newborn scalp. Waited to populate the nursery with diaper rash ointment and gender-appropriate bedding. And then I hoped. Hoped for her that her baby would be kind. That her baby would inhabit a world of security. That her baby would grow into a child, an adolescent, an adult who loved instead of feared. Who blessed instead of cursed. Who opened instead of angered. I held my son’s hand, sweaty and still small in my own, as we passed through the doors of the book store.