on a dryer-wrinkled white tee, your

sticky fingers fumbling

with the fuzz on your head, she

always said you had papas hair,

and a sniff or two of some shit'll

make your head feel fuzzy,

'cause she's

crying again,

and you don't know how to deal with it.

February sun drenches the blood

on a war torn street, valentine avenue.

chalky lips affirming 

your sobriety, right? you

french inhale the deceit and choke.

mama knew since the eighth grade, baggies

like some constellations,

stardust,

the smoke and coke 

she warned you about, marriage torn up

about, papa wearing green 

for trafficking white, ditched the carhartt.

his Jay lips mean grimacing.

5-0 caught a blow to the

chest, they still copped his ass. flashlights

lights flashing, flashing teeth, baring golds.

sentiment to that old 

pride thing,

'cause slave songs ring

louder than any Marvin Gaye song could.