POETRY IN MOTION
MALIK
Through the slums I walk aimlessly, with the sky as my roof collecting bottles and pennies shamelessly. I’m a drifter no one knows my name. Consuming loose cigarettes and Liquor Store sandwiches to alleviate the pain. Why me? As I walk but no one’s there. Having a full blown conversation with myself because no one else cares. Over there’s a stoop where I can cop a squat. Finish off this “roll up” to take my mind off my stomach that’s in knots. Crying inside but dying isn’t an option. Survival’s a struggle knowing that poverty’s my opposition. But the graffiti holds my attention. Long enough to flow into a superstar fantasy or at least an honorable mention. One foot in front of the other as I move through the slums. Crazy lady on the corner saying, “Here my friend comes”. Head nods exchange and my shoes keep moving. Left hand in my pocket attached to a box cutter, right hand holding my empty stomach that’s causing my mind confusion. An undesirable. That’s what passerby’s call me. Invincible to the world until the Arabs in the grocery store call the cops on me. Feet still moving. Darkness covers the sky. Fatigue Jacket pockets full of shoplifted goodies now I’m grooving. For the night abandon buildings where I move in. La Chateau of the ghetto with my eyes closed I hear sweet music. Strike a light, inhale and keep mind off losing. Enjoy a few hours of sleep and when the sunrise I’m back to moving.