Fox Valley Mall, technically in Aurora, attracts slightly
rougher edges—ya mans right here, stoners, guapo boys
and black. Girls bougie, beautiful and brainy, taken lightly
by fools only. I eye her way, but he eyes mine, cop decoy
with badge and walkie-talkie, walking up on the envoys
of decency—mom and me—doing the kid some “solids”:
straighten this. Pull up that. E-NUN-CI-ATE. I peep his ploy.
Play a historian. Hone on his perfect white teeth, horrid
contrasts to his charcoal cheeks. Mom nods in that morbid
way: told you. But I don’t need telling. If I’m a stereotype,
I be branded Sony, Bose—not some shit Zenith did.
I’m so damn smart with it, jo! I got all my teachers hype,
yet still, mom looks like she wants to light flame to my hide;
she don’t want me stunting as some stat been shot and died.