Ghetto Lancelot

I watch you,
Stand in the doorway contemplating the wet outdoors,
Thinking yourself alone,
Prescient and past memory painted on your face.
Walk into the wetness with that walk of yours,
Strut with a long stride, rippling like a puddle,
As though the sun caressed your glistening flesh.
Walk, Lancelot,
Into the projects, your Camelot.
You make me wonder if the rain is really there,
And make me sure that princes do appear,
And are not be bred.

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