Mr. BOOM BOOM Man

Here he comes!
Distorted bass
nearly three blocks away
announces the coming attraction.
I wait,
at the mercy of the traffic light
waiting
and waiting
for it to change
from red to green
so I won't have to deal with
HIM...
Mr. BOOM BOOM Man.

But my rearview mirror
doesn't lie
and pumping his system
from my behind
I see his calling card
baby lavender twinkle lights
hugging a chrome-plated licence plate
five-digit proclamation:
OO-BAD
coming at me!

His fifty-pound medallion
heaving hickey-stained neck
closer to the center of his manhood:
his beeper.
He pulls up slowly,
lowered Nissan mini truck
fills the vacancy on my left,
and as the automatic tinted window
makes its slow way down,
I start to wonder.
"Why can't I be like the cool girls
and like the cars that go:
BOOM BA BOOM...?
Dig the way quarters
bounce off vinyl roofs?"
"Funky, fresh, and stoopid,"
they say.

But then a flash of gold
blinds my thoughts
and Mr. BOOM BOOM,
shouts out:
"Hey,
sen-yo-reeeeta!
mamacita!
you speak English?
hey... YOU!"
I'm talking to you,
deaf bitch!"

     Then I remember.
I wanna yell out,
"Yeah, I speak English,
Pig Latin too
so 'uckfay offay Mr. BOOM BOOM!'
Take your fade
and f-f-fade away!"

But I don't have the time
(or the balls).

The light has turned green.
I take off,
FAST!
leaving behind
Mr. BOOM BOOM
Bu-foon.