Gideon Doesn't Live in This Place

Gideon doesn’t live in this place,

its soul as black as the moonless night,

silently sitting,
waiting,
watching for fresh prey,

carefully choosing,

devouring them whole,

then spitting out the pieces,

to circling sharks,

patiently waiting for the left overs;

on Friday evening,

the crip/blood, gangsta wannabes come pouring in,

like an invading, street tough, conquering army,

baby mamma, whaever bitch,

ho entourages in tow,

ghetto cool,

tattoo correct,

bling tough ready;

they understand this place,

no words required,

just a natural progression;

they have arrived;

you watch, then quietly realize,

you love your wife,

more than you ever knew.

.

.