The Crossover

JB and I

eat lunch

together

every day,

taking bites

of Mom’s

tuna salad

on wheat

between arguments:

Who’s the better dunker,

Blake or LeBron?

Which is superior,

Nike

or Converse?

Only today

I wait

at our table

in the back

for twenty-five minutes,

texting Vondie

(home sick),

eating a fruit cup

(alone),

before I see

JB strut

into the cafeteria

with Miss Sweet Tea

holding his

precious hand.