Louisiana Bigshot

Clayton wanted to prosecute, anyhow. In Talba’s mind, the worst criminals were King and Deborah Patterson, who betrayed their own daughter. When were they going to be punished, or even realize what they’d done?
    Never.
    And how about John Earl Macquet?
    When hell froze over, maybe. Without a confession from the Underwoods, the police had nothing.
    Talba sat down and wrote her own damn poem, which she read at Reggie and Chaz the following week, wearing batik pants and matching flowing top printed in gold and black, a combination she happened to know was stunning on her. She accessorized with a turquoise medallion and earrings, along with an African pillbox-style hat, mostly red, heavily embroidered with gold. According to her mama, she looked like “some fool who’s been to one too many rummage sales,” but Miz Clara was wrong, of course.
    She looked every inch a baroness.
    It was her second reading since Stan was arrested, and Janessa had missed the first, though Talba followed up on her original, impulsive invitation with a phone message. This time she’d e-mailed her (Reverend Scruggs was right, the girl did have e-mail—she’d gotten her address from the Eve’s Weaves people) and once again, scanning the audience, Talba didn’t see her. Darryl was here, though, and three other people she’d specially invited—Skip Langdon, with whom she was trying to make up; Jason Wheelock, who was still struggling with his own “closure”; and Mary Pat Sutherland, with whom she’d had coffee twice and had started liking after all. She was planning to read the “Three Sisters” poem she’d written for Babalu, and she’d asked both Jason and Mary Pat to read some of Babalu’s poems. She hoped it would turn into a mini-memorial service.
    When it was her turn, she said, “I’ve got a new poem to read tonight. I was going to call it ‘Springtime for Clayton,’ but I thought a hundred years from now, when my work is taught in schools and colleges the world over, that might not make a whole lot of sense, so I’m just gonna call it something down-home and unpretentious.” And then she said the name of the poem:
    Addendum to Ecclesiastes
    I been feeling funny in my head
—
    uneasy in my mind
—
    and
all
messed up.
    Lost soul ready-made
    For some preacher to preach at;
    And I did cook the reverend some beans.
    Thought I might cop me a sermon
—
    Least a homily or something.
    But the rev catch on I ain’t no churchlady,
    Give me a poem instead.
    He say, “To everything there is a season
—
    A time to be born and a time to die. ”
    And I think, no shit, Sherlock.
    Been seein’ a lot of them things lately.
    Both of ’em.
    But I be open-minded,
    Think, tell you what here,
    I’m gon’ just dance to the rhythms of the universe.
    I’m gon’ sow and I’m gon’ plant
    Gon’ bust some things and build some things,
    Gon’ weep and laugh, gon’ mourn and dance
    See—I’m dancin now.
    Miz Ella die, I mourn.
    Okay, I can do all that.
    But that poem say, “To
everything
there is a season.”
    Everything, y’all.
    A time for love and a time for hate
—
    (The Bible really says that)
    A time to keep silent, a time to speak
    A time to kiss, a time to wait
    Well, I can wait
—
    (Come ’round when you ready, sister girl)
    But I ain’t done with this time thing.
    I want a time for
everything,
    Like the reverend says.
    I want
my
time to come.
    How ’bout a time for all good men
    to come to the aid of the party?
    (Any
party don’t think it’s crime time)
    How ’bout some
hard
time for somebody deserve it?
    Time
in
for bad behavior
    Quittin’ time
    For some fine elected crooks;
    The time of day
    For folks never had
    They own sweet time.
    Summertime
—
    When the livin’ is prime time.
    Hurry up, please, it’s time!
    The time has come, the walrus said,
    ’Cause time is money here.
    Just wrestlin’ with a few things, rev.
    I’m gon’ go back now, and
    Score me some down time,
    Go back to dancin’ to
    The rhythms of the universe.
    It’s past my bedtime.
    Just can’t help thinkin’
    As time goes by.
    Thinkin’ maybe time’s a wastin’ here.
    How ’bout some
    Equal
time?
    THE END

 
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