Timba-tu 3

This boy, he soaks in rock, pavement churned up to prevent the masses from experiencing the flood– his flood.  Rainstorm he cannot hold shelter from.
In the distance wafting bold he charges, racing toward the sun—still,
fisting back the first rattling bottle that comes into site,
slinks across the floor boards, white snake loops, meets palm then disappears into darkness.

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