(Live poetry from my Red Line seat)

He clutches his purse
half smoked Newport in his fingers
that are polished purple

She’s sees a friend in the crowd
“Hey Bitch” she yells
“Bitch I’ve been calling you” her friend eagerly retorts

The only language spoken on here
aloud
is foul
Real loud

Here comes some woman
running late
walking slow
fat, two kids in tow
one barefoot
she know
and now she’s hitting him
for no reason
other than he didn’t listen
to her instruction
where did he learn disruption
probably from this disfunction
and I think he’s slow
she don’t think,
she know

A circle
filled with “loose squares”
different prices
who cares
that I don’t smoke
I got dreads
so I look like it

Real Blurred Lines

©2013 Cornelious “See” Flowers