A Gun In The Hand Is Worth...
it was a cliche
in a sad sort of way, the way
these weird, oppressive social
games are played
it happened in a community center (so called)
a food stamp office
she was old, tired,
had an injured hip, a
pillow and a cane,
and was number two
hundred and one
when the cut-off was
two even, brother man
on guard dumbly overdoing
his duty invited her
to stay out, she asked
to rest inside, he denied
then like a saturday poker game
with a newcomer taking all
the chips, it turned unnecessary
nigger ugly, "bitch, if-in
you wasn't so old
i'd go upside yo haid,
this here office is closed
i said,"
"son, what did you say?"
the repeat hissed snake like
cross his teeth, calmly
her old hand went
inside her old bag
and came up with her
old gun and with her
old voice she slowly
repeated an old phrase:
"well play like I'm
sweet sixteen and
hit me...!"
—kalamu ya salaam