bury me in a small town where locals breed catfish,
the elders elect to store savings in their mattress,
things always fall apart, and green grass grows in patches
I can't say I'm from the streets
it was the dirt that raised me
the theatrics of backyard banter were
scholastic in ways book-learning wasn't,
and I loved sidewalk-less suburbs; everyone's
momma had sweet potatoes stocked in cupboards
still, some spirit pulls me from the dirt that raised me
and yet city me is unfamiliar
city me latches onto hip-hop classics and tries to
find identity within the syllables of streets I
never walked at night, at night
we'd go play in dark pastures
where starlight would reflect off of our innocence onto
broken beer bottles before fading into ambiance
the dirt that raised me was medicinal
if you rub the minerals in just right
the potholes stuck out like hungry hands, and
sands from hourglasses seem suspended
in time, we grew from boys to older boys
the dirt that raised me never spared the rod
and was mindful of when streetlights came on
the dirt that raised me expects homecoming