so, he told me his story,
one that could’ve involved me
aching even more than now, alone
one he immersed me in
before I could get a question in
like, what have you been rolling in?
or what had you awake that night
at that hour

before the end of our hour
I knew he expected me
to be hyperventilating
over the weeks put into
his shoes and rings
but it clashed with
what he was driving,
no wonder why he started
pushing to see the
blinding things on
his borrowed body

because brother
ain’t have no soul

serving nothing but
leftovers with a
practiced grin

and I was the intimidating one…

probably ’cause he knew
i was still simmering from one
but still held my guns
under the table
making him sweat,
his conscience met
mine and flinched
and that’s with no take-backs

I’m too phat
to starve myself
messing around with him,
a fraud with eyes too
big for his queasy stomach

– B. Brown