Snap. Judgment studios?

Right now-

New Reef

X1

Right now, the delivery

When I was a kid, eight, nine years old, rule-mishing, and out in the sticks, grapes, green,

purple, grapes, they're really hard to come by.

I love them, I love them, so exotic, still on the vine, so civilized, like on the TV.

Something that we might get to taste only if the white folks are coming over from church,

this day, nobody extras and buys it inside the house.

It's the word, face, it's time.

The hush voices time.

My mother scoops us out oatmeal for breakfast.

Later on, we eat from that same pot of oatmeal for lunch.

And when my mother brings us out bowls of oatmeal for dinner, my brothers start to cry,

because they're younger than me, they don't know any better.

I don't cry.

Instead, I tell them how good it tastes, especially if we don't put nothing on it.

No honey, no butter, no sugar, all that stuff we don't have makes it nasty.

Look, look, look, look, look, look, look.

I'm shoving spoonfuls of oatmeal in my face, not a laughing, and eating.

As my parents turn away, we go to bed.

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