by Clide Beasley

Created on: July 29, 2008

Hot water
Runs
Into the
Bathtub,
No matter
How hard
We turn the
Spigot.

Tacky white and blue linoleum
Curls up
Off the floor
Under
The kitchen window.
Cold air blows
Through the
Cracks
In the window panes.

Rev. Slumlord,
Visits the building
Once a week
To conduct his
Anesthetizing
Sunday Church Service.
He visits the tenants
Living above
The make-shift
Sanctuary
Once a month
To collect his rent.

We used to complain about
The drug dealers
Across the street.
Then we learned
With all their cell phone talk
About
Guns,
Territories,
And
Hos,
They're more
Respectful,
Better protectors,
Than
The Police
Who are never
Around
To arrest them.

(Seven churches
On two blocks,
Yet they don't have
Enough combined
Anointing,
Nor interest
To minister
Salvation
Or
Legit business
To these
Young
Entrepreneurs.)

The sidewalks are cracked.
The curb is crushed
Into the street's asphalt.
Garbage is always
Mixed
With Rubble.

Our friendly neighborhood
Gangstas
Eat
Cheese twisties,
And cupcakes,
And potato chips
All night,
Washing them down with
Bottled punch,
Juice squeezes,
And black coffee chasers
From the Arab Bodega
On the corner.
They ain't chillin' in their hood,
So there's no need
To expend
Extra energy,
Reaching
For the nearest
Receptacle.

In the morning,
The children kick the trash
And rubble
Along Rockaway
On their way to school.
They need something to do
As they walk
The Brooklyn
Sidewalks.
Watching for
Dog mess
Ain't no real excuse
To look down.
Kicking the night's
Refuse
To the next block
Is
A more respectable
Reason.

"Po' Folk" (c) 2003, edited 2008

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