You had your prime on bourbon street.
Not in New Orleans. No.
A fraternity room with its neon “Bourbon Street” plaque above the bar.
“Show me your tits!”
Thrown into the air, flying, defying gravity.
Draped around a victor’s neck. Ceremony.
Slipped off in haste, too many choking beads.
A spectacle of flesh, a moment of thrill, a digital scar forever.
Then swung and tossed into the river.
Discarded, faded, washed up.
A cheap, plastic plaything.