the heartbeat of the blacktop leaks into his veins like warm honey
pounding in his ears, the call of the generations preceding
they are in every step, controlling his saunter and prance
he hears his parents pulling out of a driveway every sunday
they drive for an hour to visit his ailing great uncle
bring gifts that must pile up in a bleakly cloroxed room
he wants to scream Look at me! Listen to my music
he wants to twist that stereotype around his hands
spill the detergent from his great uncle’s room on it
he wants to rob, to steal, to cheat, to lie, to scam
to be what he should and should not be
his music is his anthem, he waves it like a flag
he marches and he marches and he marches
all around what he already considers his town