By Matthew Johnson

When he wasn’t a Bad Boy yet,

But just a Brooklyn boy who did bad things,

He’s just here on the hottest day of the year,

At his most productive, on the corner by a bodega,

Battle rapping, and with his playing of the dozens,

He buries his rival into the pavement and the crowd into a frenzy.

Observers encircle the huddle and let out oohs and ahhs

From the torrent of punchlines from the big-bodied teenager;

Each clever boast of his prowess and punishing insult to the challenger

Is another shovel of dirt atop the grave of the unseen opponent.

The footage of a young Christopher Wallace is grainy on home video,

And it’s difficult to make out his face, but that voice and delivery,

Operating with more flow than the East River, you know it’s him.

And the craziest thing about it, watching Biggie Smalls like this,

Is that his demo tape hadn’t even been sent out yet;

This is him as a novice. This is just practice.

Matthew Johnson is the author of the poetry collections, Shadow Folks and Soul Songs (Kelsay Books), Far from New York Star (NYQ Press), and Too Short to Box with God (Finishing Line Press). His poetry has appeared/is forthcoming in The African American Review, Apple Valley Review, Heavy Feather Review, London Magazine, and elsewhere. A recipient of multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations, as well as recognition from Grand State University, the Hudson Valley Writers Center, and Sundress Publications, he is the managing editor of The Portrait of New England and the poetry editor of The Twin Bill. www.matthewjohnsonpoetry.com