The gurgling girl runs into Drizzy as he shoots up
like a meteor through the universe. He’s in a hurry,
he ain’t got no time. He doesn’t hear her scream.
He barely hears her scream. When he hears her
scream, he puts on his light-skinned voice, says
he’s focused on this grind, on feeding his day-ones,
how an autograph isn’t the same as work.
She says she’s just asking for one minute,
she’s been listening since he turned stellar,
come on, man, just one autograph.
He scrapes through her left wing with a ballpoint pen.
She’s going on about how she loves that
he’s amorphous like she is, one moment he’s
down for the settle-down and the next he’s soft breath
tumbling out of the window and gone,
one moment he’s hard like bricks in flight and then
his voice is brown rum through a buzzing phone line.
Drizzy nods, says thank you, tries to head back up
up and away but the girl won’t stop talking about
a future the boy didn’t prophesy himself.
She blinks all eight orbs in a cascade
and watches him flutter into strobe-light burst
till the street turns quiet.