My entire wardrobe was Canal

Street original, knockoff chic,

adolescent sleek in my double XL

blue & black bubble jacket.

Yeah, I was inside the club

& what? Inside an oversized

coat coated in sweat & Old

Spice, a kid eyeing sixteen but

not quite there. I wanted it all,

chico: learner’s permit,

the latest Jordans in baby

blue, maybe a wink from

the pretty Boricua from Social

Studies. & when Biggie’s

verse dropped in “Only You”

he was in that room & teaching

us how to live elevated from

that third-floor wasteland towering

above India Point, so we sang,

sour throated & nostalgic

for times we hadn’t yet lived,

in unison: like we wrote it, till our

voices cracked & spilled over

& between every rift but in

the throng of lost kids where

I finally found a self I loved,

it all came together like we

could remix any wreckage

& make it into a stage

to slay, so we swayed &

grinded like our lives

were a music video

tribute, hip-to-hip.