There they go again.
Posted outside the Papi Store
with lucy’s tucked between
the crannies of their ears like carpenters.
Babbling lyrics from rap songs
while their arms catch holy ghost;
while the hour glass of their
freedom dwindles away abruptly.
“...It's all about the motherfuckin’ money!
It's all about the motherfuckin’ money!...”
i see myself in the
reflection of their lost;
in the indifference of
their laughter;
in the quiet of their pain.
Five-O creeps through the block
like a drive-by, while the drug dealers
stand their ground like a Mexican standoff.
The tension is thick enough
to cut with a prison shank.
“Ayooooooo!...where the bitches at bro?”
“Stayin’ away from you broke ass niggas!”
“Yeah iight, i get bitches nigga!”
“Imagine that. The last time you got some pussy, DMX made a hit record.”
“HAHAHA!!!”
The air tastes like a black family reunion cookout down south.
The new mothers proudly push their infant babies in strollers,
while waiting on a collect call from the incarcerated fathers.
Their girlfriends awkwardly flaunt their baby bumps.
The newsy church women watch in shame,
even though they became mothers at much younger ages.
The kids recklessly ride their bikes in the street
with no parents in sight.
The universe colors our skin with sun.
...summer is around the corner.
© Sulē Cerdan 2015
