Woke up like clockwork, soap dripping, water wasted, lotion greasing skin but no bread tasted, streets whisper lies— "we gon’ feed you, son," but the block dry, desert winds cut my lungs. Mind boiling piss, on pigs in blue uniforms, they piss first, I piss back in storm form, fuck the law, fuck the drought, ain’t no meal plan, just hustler’s breakfast— air and a hard plan. Parent and son, eyes locked on Jesus sandals, asking if this hunger’s the Prophet’s same battle, or is it just me, weekend fasting in the ghetto, no profit in the pot, no groceries, just echoes. I thought of prayer, but the hunger stole my knees, stomach growling verses like a broken symphony, second Fried-Day, lord I’m holding out, Monday comes, back to streets without doubt.