The Judging of the Jello, Down at the Spit n' Burp

It was spring, barely, and already
Nearly hot. The St Paddy's parade
Beeped and tooted through the village.

The mind was full of unrequited serpents,
The varieties of salvation, the usual
Measures of collapse, of failure, of joy.

Big words, boyo, those little ones.
Two big-bellied men in green bowlers
Welcomed me to the curbside

Where I waited for wife and daughter
To pass, tossing candy from the fire truck,
And thought, sadly, how I was now

Among the sag-gutted, salt-haired
Sidewalk nondescripts myself, alas.
So many funny English words

For an Irish saint in Utah's Deseret,
I consoled myself. Myself who was
Not me and I shared a little laugh.

The sidewalks emptied for the park
Outside the Bit n' Spur Grill for contests,
Jello sculptures, costumes, the like.

Have you ever heard the like?
I am somewhere other now, someone
Other than a serpent-tricking saint,

But what do I know about where
Or one? In my elfin, jolly gut I hope
I am swimming over a deep, green lake.