Sonnet from the Porch de Guise

Alert! Alarum! Dental contretemps!
Maestro, ex-pat to Nawlins—sovereign state
of mind, gaslit oasis in the swamp—
has massacreed pre-molar twenty-eight.
Que lástima! Whence came this coup fourré?
What karmic ills must Maestro’s teeth atone?
He feverishly suspects the Vieux Carré
intends to brand him as one of its own!
Yet surely he must fathom that—despite
his having suffered what can only be
celestially beshitted luck to bite
too fast and vigorous upon a wee,
ceramic baby Jesus in a cake—
One broken tooth does not a Cajun make.

[For Paul McCoy. Last line by Emily Borcherding, 20121227]