You.

You have your hat pulled low. You’re watching. You’re the mayor of the corner. “Yo money, what’s good?,” you say to the vendor walking by with his shirt cart. You chew your gum.  You’re in charge. Can’t nobody tell you to move. This is your throne. You rule from it. You pull into your pocket and check your phone. You chew your gum. Nobody called, but you play with it anyways. That racing game. That flyin’ game. You read a text from yesterday night. “She crazy.” You chew your gum. You spit it out to the trash can, but you missed. Oh well. You adjust your hat. You adjust your dreads. You ain’t got nothin’ to do but a whole lot to think about. Like what’s going to pop off tonight. You think to yourself, “What is going to pop off tonight?” You don’t know. But something will happen. Maybe you should write something. Maybe you should go into the booth. Maybe you need some new shoes. Or a shirt. Or both. Gotta look right for tonight. You mumble a rhyme to yourself. Some old lady walks past and looks at you. You suck your teeth and pull your hat lower. “‘Chu lookin’ at?” Chill, chill, she probably got cataracts or somethin’, you think. Aight, office hours are about up, it’s time to bounce. But to where? To what? You don’t know. But you’re gonna act like you know. Can’t let them see the fear and the uncertainty. You’re the mayor, remember?