Ghetto Pulse
It is still a block away,
so, I can’t see the car.
But, I can feel the bass.
There is a pump, pump, pump it up, a pulse
that emanates from every other car
that cruises my street.
That pump it up is
the unique sound of a BOSE system,
blasting Reggae, Rap, or, R & B;
sometimes blasting a sound that’s foreign to me.
The unique sound
announces the arrival of
the unique sound
of a TUPAC,
or,
of a B.I.G.,
coming, soon, to a neighborhood near you.
But, that pump it up
is more than a sound,
is more than a song.
I don’t just hear it,
and, I don’t just sing along,
I feel the beat within my pulse;
it is my own ghetto pulse,
dancing throughout my body.
That pump, pump, pump it up
becomes my pulse.
I watch the car, as it fades from sight,
but, that bass returns,
as the ghetto pulse emanates
from the next approaching car.
blackstarr52@gmail.com
Renaissance, The New Millennium, pulse, Tupac, B.I.G., poetry, poetry
