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
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