Tennis Match

I know the brotha
in the taxi cab, hanging out
the window with both hands around
his midnight 38-special. His mother sells
candy out of their apartment. His brother got
shot in the head for almost running over somebody's
dog (word on the streets). Some dude is on one knee,
with his arms on the railing, shooting back at the taxi
cab. I have never seen him before. Bullets dash all
over the place, in and out of bounds, our heads move
left and right, waiting for one man to fall on clay
chalk dust (our concrete). I know the people on
both sides of the street—we want to exchange our
boos and ahs as to how the brothas are holding
up. I can see Mama. Her face is gruff like her
mind twisting. Her eyes plead, "LaRoy,
come here!" synchronized by,
"Boy, don't you move!"