Ghetto Summers (part 2)

Ghetto Pulse

I can’t see the car.

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.

copyright © 09.07.1997 blackstarr

blackstarr52@gmail.com

Renaissance, The New Millennium, pulse, Tupac, B.I.G., poetry, poetry