Last Supper

imagine 13 niggas stuffed in a stuffy ass apartment.

it’s dinner, and it’s happening late, cause niggas.

the plates are laid out and now there’s a mouthwatering

silence while we wait for Auntie to sit. we lick our hunger

and spit jokes to stretch time to a tablecloth. “aye y’all

remember when?...” and of course we do. like this not

the story we tell every year of someone busting they ass

and a dish broke and Grandma said and we hopped

the fence but and the fish smelled so good that -then

-maybe if lil cuz from and i still don’t trust now look

now hold up! let me get a picture now boy you bout ashy as-

-no, no you telling it all wrong! you used to always make those damn

damn he still locked up sorry to that man damn nigga

just apologize turn a cheek or sum how many pictures

you boutta take? and i do miss Grandma. that one window

-the one facing the street that’s always open lays a bite

of breeze at our lips and i guess it is nice to ask if we

remember. how terrible it’d be for us to ever forget.