The Little Park


summer Bronx streets was the father to my style

smelly old sneakers, dirty wife beaters; I was the funky funky child

bathing my lips in hot water fountains and spreading my genius on top of skelzie boards

while nappy headed girls jump around in their jellies, double dutch’n with old telephone cords

We raced our energy away while the sun set below the curves of flickering street lights

pretending not hear our mother’s call until the last one light, for all us kids to take flight