I took the only seat left, beside a dude
with an afro ten inches tall, who bongo drummed
his knees, accompanying an invisible quartet
he claimed he wanted
to create, not re-late, so he slapped paint
on canvas, and blew on his horn
his woman wanted more, more
bread, more bed, more time to rap, more,
more, plural mores he said
but he wanted singular less
and told her it would be best
if she split--and she did
though on her way out the door of his crib
she kicked a wet canvas, leaving a stiletto print
on James Baldwin's nose
"cool cat must have had his nose broke
by some ***** before, " so he left her smudge
alone, and then he was alone
when he got off the bus
and told me to be cool, he handed me a smoke
I bummed a light from another hip cat
but he didn't have a story to tell
so I smoked my Winston solo, listening to the bus's hum
and distant muffled horns
Oakland, June 1969
Based on a short conversation I had on a bus last century--I had a century of those "raps," but they only come to mind now and then. More then than now maybe.