loaded

I can’t help but stare
It’s a world unknown in these middle class white parts
Where picket fences are actually painted a shade of ivory each spring
And security systems protect the valuables, not the persons, of each home

He, with armpit hair long enough to be braided
Would fit well in a South Central spoof film
“word,” he says, to which his Indigenous lover replies, “you’re lying”
this exotic lingo tickles my hearing and wonders,
are you even capable of knowing my meaning?
Word.

He, with cigarettes in hand and ID in wallet-
Wait, that’s years away
Just like the maturity of wisdom and experiences-
Wait, he has experience
This ghetto is not vain; it allows all ages to draw from its teachings

He, with car stereo tucked under a designer tracksuit arm
Cords still fresh and dangling, like veins of a calf
Faceplate still waiting for the familiar touch of its legitimate owner
Too bad, they will never be reconnected
Whereas his hand will reconnect with enough cash to �
Who are we kidding, it won’t be cash.

She, with little tyke as cute as a baby could be
Fubugly is the word I’ve heard used to describe someone of her visual appearance
Why at such an age is this one holding another?
because the city’s tolerance gave up and spit her out
And held her to a standard of responsibility unknown to the kids in the VWs

What a twisted route
To play with my emotions so violently every time
As ferocious as the ripping of a door frame to break and enter
Or as furious as the car crash on a major intersection
It’s loaded. And I am not.