The fresh scent of nicotine litters
the air around vandalized
bus stops. Damaged
civilians preach about needing
money they can’t work for–
…oh, they’re talking to me.
Chit chatter on the streets instigate
yet another shooting: it looks like
the 5-0 is at it again. A
young sista gives me a newspaper regarding
a new wave of Black Panthers, a
list of our rights when pulled over, and
survival: given to me outside a
ninety-nine cent store.
Busses are fitted with
gum stains and unbathed men;
surely the driver knows I
did not pay my dollar seventy-five.
The driver boots a broke passenger, yet
the next stays.
I overhear a phone call across
the bus, something about a woman’s sister owing her
two-hundred so she can
pay her rent; her child on her lap is
crying again. Some young brothas start
blasting music at the back.
Very little dies when
sirens perform their rituals again–
I’m at the right stop.
Middle-agers hang out
in front of the liquor store: I learn their
faces but not their names. Gave one of them
a quarter, spoke to him the next time I
passed by, walking down the street to
Rally’s: across the street from Jack in the Box, Fatburger,
even a 7/11. A different man, probably in his 50’s, explains how
he ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong, he
mindin’ his bidness. He ain’t fuckin’ wid
no one. He gets his Rally’s burger and
rides his bike away. I pass by the liquor store
to get back home.