That nigga is gonna be president
the Critic said, with a rolled cigarette
on his lips, bobbing to a music
unintelligible, unbearable to dogs.
Stone Hand wrestled with the sound
behind his forehead, shook it long
enough to fall victim to the Critic’s stare
and Critic saw him, stumbling amongst
a blur of people distorting the view
of the library’s face, enough to perturb the Critic
alone, but something about Stone Hand,
his peer, the man-boy’s posture
mocking straight backs everywhere
Critic took a shine to hating him,
saw him for what he would be,
could become if he managed
to remember what brought him
to the library, or so his demeanor
suggested to the Critic, naturally
Stone Hand misses the joke,
misses the Critic completely, there are
quite enough about to easily miss yet another
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