The Stoop

Sweat, beads, as the ruby red of your push pop makes it mark.

It's hot.

The kinds that seeps into every cranny and every nook.

A droplet rolls from my neck to the small of my back.

You swing those braids as you cuss with your girls.

I'm smoking with my boy CJ on the stoop.

The juices from last nights garbage stench the streets, but you don't pay no mind.

You just scream at those little girls flipping their jump rope, and push them off the block.

I can tell the heats getting to you too, but can't keep my eyes off those white cut offs you're pushing.

A clap of thunder instantly clears the streets, but I stay still, almost frozen, until you see me.

You give me the finger and rush inside with your girls, stealing one last look.

A smile.

Damn.

I'll take it.