In honour of Movember, and the fact that aLookingGlass designed the t-shirts for the BVI event, I offer this poem about my only experience wearing a moustache. It also happens to be about Halloween.
UFO Lands on Bourbon Street
Without a single double take, we strolled
down Rue St. Ann the night of Halloween.
Your Cher was flawless, robed in sixties green—
a backless number stitched with flecks of gold.
My Sonny wore a vest of the same fur
as my moustache, attempting to conceal
my femininity. It was surreal
to see myself a him and you a her.
In the Quarter, though, we were hardly freaks.
Authentic vampires, freed from coffins, drank
red wine with a band of tipsy, toga-clad Greeks.
Curbside, Catwoman shared a joint with Frank-
enstein. Some rusted sutures stitched his cheeks.
A ghost floated by. Her entire look was blank.
Queen Amidala, Prince, and a fool held court
with Dr. J who’d clearly hit the sauce.
Above their heads, on iron balconies, played
some werewolves, witches, imps of every sort.
Jesus staggered by twice, one with a cross-
dressed Billie, sipping strange and fruity ade.
The aliens that descended should’ve guessed
they’d go unnoticed in the Vieux Carré.
They showed up practically as underdressed
as each employee of Ritz Cabaret.