Tip, tip, tip, little fingers tap,
Tube stop Anderson .Paak smacking
The rim of an imaginary skin,
Beating meat on his knee, 1, 2, 3…
For he’s squeezing out a beat like it’s fresh orange juice,
Hair pulled back, ponytail loose,
Slumped all kinds of louche –
It’s the end of day, got nothing to lose.
Decadent deviant, misread miscreant,
Creating a melody not meant to be read,
As thoughts sing indelibly inside of his head,
Hands steady, ready, then ready to go,
Treble clef after clef, humming note after note
I follow the rhythm like I’m reading a quote,
No way to paraphrase the fading phases
Of his creative daze, been thinking for days.
Ruminating, germinating, Raybans aviating,
Mirrored on the front so
It’s my own face that holds my gaze as I perambulate.
Perfecting the written reflection of his
Cherry blossom blazer, dirty with patterns
Like a Japanese spring,
The flowers are falling
And cover him like lint.
He grins a self satisfied, yellow grin
And I hope to God that his pillow has a mint.
Can’t rescind that which cant be undone,
Just as you can’t run after crossing your legs
Even in jeans, the question still begs
An answer to a figure of four cross
Held from the first to his last stop –
Sew him back together when the
Pins and needles make him drop.