Bronx Bodega

Yo,

I see the sun set through the steamy glass,

Neon flickers on the awning, dreams amassed—

Quarter water drippin’ colors in my palm,

Unfoldin’ stories like a comic in my Psalm.

Shelves leanin' heavy with the hope of every block,

Plantain piled high, watch the gossip never stop.

OG postin’ up, he got a lotto ticket wish,

Dominoes slammin’, score etched in every dish.

Sazon on my tongue, tell the flavors never front,

Yucca in the fryer, momma stretching every month.

Chopped cheese prophecy, blade so precise,

Wisdom in a Goya can, shaking out advice.

Aluminum bats by the counter, just in case,

But grandma’s prayers got more power in this place.

Kids crank sour, Now & Laters for a laugh,

But every barcode hustle got a future in its path.

Open late, fluorescent hum a lullaby,

Pigeon congregation—skyline never dry.

Snapbacks trade hands, new legend in the making,

Hustle in the veins, pulse louder than the bacon.

Spanish blends with English in a salsa of the street,

Each dollar gets a blessing, left right at your feet.

Eagle on the mural, pride in every stroke,

This ain’t just a store, it’s the city when it spoke.

Bag of chips, loosey, and a lucid revelation,

Crooked tiles reflect the weight of generations.

Rain taps the tin roof, rhythm in the storm,

Where every soul remembers how the borough keeps you warm.

Papi at the register with stories for the youth,

Bronx bodega—where the struggle finds its truth.