My butt’s blistered, sliding down bannisters,
to avoid the ladies on the stoop,
who sit with their skirts hiked-up three stories,
when a basement flat would suit them better.

Johnny pump sprays to cool off the hot streets,
we go full gush here, none of them mist caps
that the city would want that we should use,
I mean – this is the ghetto man – you know?

Being serious, some kids go naked,
right here on the street, Eleventh near B,
(where the Shower House was, you remember?)
as if this was paradise or something.

You know who you can trust when the pump’s on,
you know who your boys are, girls know the same,
it’s those who don’t spray you when you pass by,
the ones who let you go and keep you dry.

I fly up the stoop, I near pull a groin,
Las antiguas who sit there grab at my ass,
playful, like those secret aunts tucked away,
say goodnight my young prince, ‘sta mañana.

© Chicheme, 2013