A place for black pallbearers

the sun’s peeping in through thick damp air

smothering in the smell of burnt bacon fat

on dusty rows of little grey houses

and short narrow streets with no side walks

housing projects running colored shit brown

and four rusty chairs on root bare ground

all swirling down in there

‘round a old card table

mo people coming bid’em in bid’em in

pickled pig feet and cigarette butts

long low dipping strides n tiny bitty struts

on the way back to work and other such such

or driving by slow so’s to feeling mo good

wish they had the nerve just wish they could

never gone leave here trying they believe

this street it crowded a yellow bus stop

shade-eyed jacks with plastic little bags

tiny legs crossing over with no red flag

cars lined up big white sidewalls

long coon tails shiny red toenails

hand full of balls dress high up the thigh

swooning here dripping in another wet passage

talking table talk mumbling stumbling trying to feel

cut’da’cards’motherfucker’n’jes’gone’n’deal

Copyright © 1993 Asili Ya Nadhiri