I love this poem–it reminds me of the days when I could run circles around the boys in my neighborhood–how we all avoided going home because no one was at home and nothing was at home but pain.
It may speak to you, too. Visit the author’s site to read the poem in its entirety and to like it/show love, too.
From my eighth-floor windowI could hear hope bounce back and forthon concrete loitered with crack vials. Dirt-caked Nikes were like handsreaching for revolutionin the air. It didn’t get them out of the projects,but Jordan would have been proudthe way these boys balled. It kept their bodies distracted from the hungerof not eating for three days.Here, […]
One More Game
A Cornered Gurl 
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