The Hood Don't Love Me*

They talk about my sneakers,
the ones that have walked hundreds of miles of concrete.
Potholes as deep as the ghetto running through my veins.
The sneakers that have run from many men,
“God guard me from the ungodly”.
Sneakers laced with grime,
the only evidence of my hustle underneath the streetlights,
the sneakers that have cruised pavement,
while I was in search of midnight passion,
sneakers that have swayed with the rhythm in each car, back alley, and old mattress.

Motion sickness.

Sneakers that have taken part in the illness
of my body against theirs,
sneakers that have not left the soles of my feet,
not once with any man.
They despise the sneakers that have witnessed their greatest sexual sins.
I despise myself as a nightwalker.

* dedicated to vickie