The Poet from Below

Yeah. Uh. Leaning on the rail, smoke curled in

the air. A- ash fell like snow. Snow. I ain't have

a care. Care. From the floor below, a voice smooth

like a sax. Yo. You make music. A froze caught in the cracks.

Nah, not really. Just a dude with a Marlboro. He laughed.

Words flow like rivers in the morrow. Said he was a poet,

painting pictures with his pen, told me music's just rhythm, words are the

lens. Back then, my world was a loop on repeat.