launchpad

WP: 152 Ten-thirty nine at the Laundromat, I’ve got nine minutes left til I dry and dash. Thinking why am I still here trying to rap? I guess passing the time is the best I got. Maybe one day I’ll be trying Zagat, no not the tiger uppercuts, it’s the fancy book with all the spots, mere mortals like me can’t afford to hop. And maybe wining, dining, to pass the time? Won’t need quarters no more to set aside. No twenty-four, seven, eyes thinking, “Who’s this guy?” And me feeling like they don’t like my kind.  But that’s alright, I’m fine, I’m still Jackson Heights. Won’t let some hood-rats harass my highs. I’m about D. Thomas this tonight, and rage, rage, against the dying of the light. And we forgive and we forget cause that’s the line, that He shouted into dark and foreboding sky. Love hung high for us here living low-lives, amazing is grace, words can’t describe.