Poem for an OG

what’s up O.G.?
the women say as
you walk by

you got a cigarette?

and sometimes you got
a smoke and sometimes
you don’t

the smoke has
settled and the once
neon lights that smiled
in their self assuredness
are distant flickers

O.G., original
gangster, played every
game, knew every
hustle backwards and forwards

O.G., still hustlin’,
still sellin a dream or
two, a watch, a radio,
a coat or even a late night
bus transfer

Hey O.G.,
let me talk to you for
a minute

As you strut down
the runway/one way/No way
that is Market st.

Hearing half of what
is said and seeing

O.G., limpin’ down
the street with a diluted
tattoo that sits like a puzzle
piece in a mural that has
been stripped of its color,
its dream, its identity

O.G. they call you,
and sometimes you ain’t in
the mood for that O.G. shit,
sometimes it might just as well
stand for:


But when you light
that cigarette, it lights
up the whole of Market Street
as well as the eyes of those
that remember you

What’s up O.G., you got
a cigarette?

(c) 2014 Tony Robles.


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