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BY
As the days warm and genitalia hangs lower My allergies act up as the pollen-riddled days go slower. I feel accomplished looking in my tissue after acting the nose-blower. Can you hear the bells of the ice cream truck? I hope this year we have the same scooper, he didn’t give a f*ck. I could get a Chipwich and a nickel bag for under a buck. The sun works hard with the garbage on the sidewalks When it’s left out for pickup on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The smell of rotting eggshells and other stuff, (if only sidewalks needed mulch) induces nausea in a sweet “Ah yes, the hot sun and festering garbage, yum” kind of way. Mostly though, it just smells like your momma’s sweat pants after a 5 mile run in August. Wifebeaters hugging man-boobs and lady-boobs, but boobs, boobs All boobs nonetheless, boxers hanging out of the backs of pants, Teens with forties hangin’ on the corner, Chinese restaurants that sell more onion rings and hamburgers than they do chicken and broccoli Funions. The test market for Nike and any new sugary drinks. Minorities love sugar. Research departments say so. This is springtime in the ghetto. In the ghetto, my neighbor spends more money on low profile rims for his ’89 Honda Civic than he does on his baby’s formula. I know because I hear his wife say, “Papi, you fat pig, get me some baby food and stop waxing your car.” Springtime also means potholes, from the snowplows ripping up the street during the snowfalls. Potholes that my neighbor bends his shit on. Springtime in the ghetto. Oh, is that the ice cream man? Snap, I’m gonna go get a nickel bag of Chipwich. Word. I’m out.
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