tony had been getting into
voodoo ever since his sojourn
in new orleans. his sabbatical.
he'd been to the ninth ward
and saw some shit that shook
his wise and safety addled brain.
a blown out house with a goat
out front. inside was a chicken,
maybe two. he knew
because he crossed the wet, cracked
concrete, picked his feet up over
puddles, walked right up to the tilting
structure: 'how, how?' some 16 plus years,
he can't explain why it looks like
katrina was here last month.
later, on st. charles, a lady outside temple
--but with no connection, he assumed--
wagged a finger at him.
a bike broke a twig across the street,
tony buckled and snapped an ankle.
correlation, causation, whatever.
he quit academia and, last I heard,
was moving to benin. you know
tony had been getting into voodoo.