Bochincheras
Bochincheras
"ayo, peep shorty on the corner—pants saggin like gravity owe him money."
"¡ay dios! look at them boxers—bright like they from the 99 cent store.
he walkin like he own the block, but can’t even buy a metrocard."
"let me be pacific—he cappin heavy.
actin like he important when he just buggin.
all flex, no check."
"y esa muchachita? the one wit’ the neon braids?"
"thirsty as hell, mami. out here twerkin like rent due tomorrow."
"draggin it! odee draggin it!
talkin loud, laugh even louder, got them lashes battin like wings."
"she got on bamboo earrings and them slides with socks?
whole outfit look like she lost a bet—but she think she killin it."
"a mess, chula. but she feelin herself.
you know how they do—young and unbothered, like life ain’t got bills."
we sit on the stoop like two chapters from a novel—
one in spanish, one in black girl blues,
but both written in block ink and burnt summers.
"you remember when we was them?"
"mm-hmm. we ain’t have no chill neither."
"but we ain’t wearin pajama pants outside."
"¡claro que no! mi abuela woulda thrown la chancleta from three floors up."
we laugh so hard the pigeons side-eye us.
sip our café like holy water.
"still, i pray for them."
"always. one day they gon’ glow up or grow up."
"same difference."
the sun hits our skin like we earned it,
and we keep watch like always—
narratin, judgin, rememberin.
but never hatin.
just talkin.
just lovin.
just loud.
Copyright © Windy Martinez | Year Posted 2025
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