Stopping By The Hoods On A Summer Evening


Whose hoods these are I think I know.
His crib next to a burnt out store;
he will not mind if I hang out
to watch the streets fill up with punks.

His fellow gang bangers don’t think it gay
when he won’t whistle at the ho
who leans into the window of a car
on this darkest night of the year.

He gives his gun a twirl
to put all women in their place.
The only other sound’s
the hip hop raping of the wind.

The hoods are lovely, dark and deep,
but he has brothers yet to shoot.
He smiles before he goes to sleep,
he smiles before he goes to sleep.