Twenty-nine is a strange year.

 

Some nights, I live my 

future--

sliding into a pair of 

peep toe stilettos, 

applying the right shade

of burgundy lipstick

to complement 

the Merlot I'll order 

in the mature calmness of a wine

bar in Uptown. I'll sip daintily

while cross-legged

on a bar stool as jazz night

sings along with his fingers

on the piano on those

Friday nights.

 

But then, it's Saturday--

and I'm tucking green pants

into combat boots, 

drawing attention to my face

with black eyeliner

and the deep violet lipstick

my mother still hates. 

It's after 11 when I step 

into the club on St. Bernard Avenue

and blend in quickly 

with the other people who

like to live underground

and are what my mother likes to

call "fashion victims".

I'm on my second order 

of vodka and cranberry when

noise rap rock takes the stage,

so it doesn't take long 

for the euphoria of the crowd

to spread to me, and I forget

the time between trying to find 

the rhythm and cheering  them

on from the top of a speaker

until I'm hoarse and dizzy

off of the crowd losing 

the tension of the work week. 

 

Twenty-nine is a strange year.

Coming home from work

and wine bars dressed 

in grown woman status,

but still--

 

I'm half-way to getting

high school wasted.

 

Note: I'm going to be thirty next month. Help.