Not the 2nd letter in the alphabet
More like the rolled up
Ends of Pam’s hair—
Low key Pam to
Me was always
More elegant/
than Gina
—(90’s and colorism)—
Back to these b’s—

I like to reference the
3rd ward B’s
From houston—
Wheezing through the
Air in search of flesh
And social contact—
Eye balls—these b’s

Wait to pollinate
Enough pain to elicit—
That’s what your ass
Get for fucking with me—

I was told once
That I was—at best—
A b writer. I take
Offense to this—only

Because I wasn't given
A chance to provide my
Reputable—B’s like most things
Blackish or bounciest—

Have enough duality
To feed the south—
Like collard greens
And black-eyed peas

On the first of the year—
Accordingly, every black
Family, per this guide—
Should be millionaires—
At least rich enough
To pay off a cop or two—

I digress—

The only time I every
Used my b’s
Was on a wall—
Walls with holes
Gave room for

So our trailer
Was full & holly—


But again I digress—

My eyes and mind have
Seen b’s fly so often
That it's second nature for me
To stand against any wall
And wait/ anticipate
For someone to say something

For that ideal moment—

For that spectacular
Instance where 
B’s connect with flesh—

And a united—

oooooooo—ghostly and appropriate—


DURELL THOMPSON uses his poetry as a way to embrace his roles as an educator, writer, and father, and to prepare his son to live and thrive as a Black man. Thompson’s work has appeared in Bayou Magazine, Beacon, and Black Fox Lady Magazine.