GHETTO SUMMERS
Three holidays, in the summertime,
the backdrop for my ghetto rhyme.
Memorial Day finds me on my way,
to a shore,
a shore with a boardwalk, a bikini, and, a party.
I depart, for a moment, from the confines of my beloved ghetto,
to the clean, endless sand of a Virginian beach.
In July, I depart, for a moment,
to pay homage to someone else’s beloved ghetto.
I depart to the smell of charcoal, of hot dogs.
In someone else’s beloved ghetto,
I taste of cooking put to good use,
and, lay low with a gin and juice.
September finds me at home,
enjoying the sights, enduring the sounds,
feasting on the aromas of a rapidly fleeing ghetto summer.
Money’s too short, now, for one last
trip to that shore of sand, bikinis, and, parties.
So, September finds me at home.
I can’t pay homage to another’s beloved ghetto,
as their money is too short to entertain.
Therefore, September finds me at home.
So, the distinct smell of charcoal
gives way to
the distinct smell of hot dogs and burgers,
gives way to
the distinct smell of ribs and gin,
but,
with city workers on strike, again,
it all gives way to
the distinct aroma of festering ghetto garbage.
