Stella, Stella

it's humid.

it's New Orleans humid.

i'm sweating, drenched

in my own personal high tide.

i get now why

they talk

the way they do down there,

words

just don't come

out in an intelligible way

when it's this hot and sticky.

the words want

to stay in a cooler

place.

i change out of my white

t-shirt,

and find my other t-shirt,

the one with

no sleeves, just like the one

Marlon Brando wore

in Streetcar.

i change my wife's name

to Stella,

and start screaming her name.

she comes into

the room,

hands on her hips and asks

me who Stella is.

i'm fanning myself with a 

slice of pizza.

what's wrong with you,

she says.