no one told me

I should’ve known.

But one of you should’ve told me.

I got all the way into the bel­ly of the beast
and didn’t even know.

I could’ve died.

BE­CAUSE NONE OF Y’ALL TOLD ME.

It’s the week­end be­fore St. Patrick’s and my peo­ple will not be made to cel­e­brate rea­son­ably on the ac­tu­al de­clared hol­i­day, NO.

We will take the en­tire week­end be­fore, day of, and a cho­sen few of us will hero­ical­ly go out next week­end in our green uni­forms and chase down a col­lec­tive drunk the likes of which has not been seen since … Hal­loween.

I didn’t even re­al­ize it was St. Patrick’s Day (most­ly be­cause it’s STILL A WHOLE WEEK AWAY) un­til she walked out of the bar.

She pulled off her green LED glass­es and be­gan to cry. I ap­proached with cau­tion be­cause host­ing raves will teach you that peo­ple who cry be­hind LED glass­es are a spe­cial breed of un­pre­dictable.

An old­er man got to her first. His fol­ly was my gain. I watched as he ap­proached.

“Are you okay?” This poor fool had fall­en to the Siren’s song. He saw a young woman cry­ing but had missed the green LED glass­es.

She sniffs, part­ly from cry­ing and part­ly be­cause she is catch­ing hy­pother­mia in her pink minidress in 50 de­gree weath­er.

“It’s my birth­day and every­one is fight­ing!” The dev­as­ta­tion of her own sen­ti­ment catch­es up with her and she be­gins ugly cry­ing.

I keep walk­ing. I want to help him, but I have to save my­self.

I find a near­by ta­ble to watch from un­no­ticed as the man spins into fren­zied mad­ness at­tempt­ing to make sense of her re­spons­es.

Two men in white coats come to take him away. The three are im­me­di­ate­ly stomped to death by a crowd wear­ing all green yelling some­thing racist about Lucky Charms.

If I didn’t be­lieve it a sin to leave free al­co­hol un­drank I would’ve gone home im­me­di­ate­ly. I fin­ished my glass of Syrah and walked my com­pa­ny to her car to make sure she was safe from the un­ruly hoards of Ro­sevil­lains and drove twice the speed lim­it to get home as soon as hu­man­ly pos­si­ble.

Do not go out on those streets tonight chil­dren. Lis­ten to your moth­ers. Am­a­teurs spend hours mak­ing fun of peo­ple who go out to drink on St. Patricks.

I love you. So I’m telling you. They will be back out to­mor­row, but it will only be the most sav­age, un­cul­tured, and rage­ful of them.

Shel­ter your­selves in­side af­ter the sun goes down un­til next Mon­day when the streets will once again be safe … un­til May 5th.

 

—an­dru de­f­eye

Flom­mist An­dru De­f­eye is the Guer­ril­la Poet Lau­re­ate of Sacra­men­to. Copy­right © 2022 An­dru De­f­eye. Mon­tage by mehal­lo.

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