rolemodels

Growing up, from swing set
to cigarettes, my street had no swimming
pool, only bent circles
with no net, metal hoops
nothing
to catch inflated or pass,
except blunts packed
from older brothers
who rode a different bus
and all wore the same color.

Haircuts were tell your mom
if she has time for me
after dinner.
Not ask, because what’s grammar.
What manners? We’re neighbors.
Our fathers carpool.
On Fridays after work they drink
together, sink bottles
under
steel-toed boots
away from trashcans and wives
and throw attention at neither
except when there are messes
to clean up.

What’s missing is replaced
by what is there.

A living beat, rhythmic and organic our poetry
is freestyle cyphers, flow calisthenics
and eight-oh-eight olympics.

How else would you explain six streets
and one stop? I guess that’s why
we don’t

say no to a lung party