At nine I wanted to pop like Turbo in Breakdance. 
Freshly kitted in a two tone grey Nike shell suit jacket 

with concealed hoodie. Hand washed in ice cold 
bath water along with my indigo denim jeans 

folded inside out. In my boxers I watched 
them dry on the balcony, as I mouthed the melody 

to TOUR DE FRANCE by Kratftwerk on my Sony walkman. 
Underneath the stairwells I would tie a broom handle to my finger 

and slide across the floor perfecting the freeze and burn. 
Tapping my right shoulder to start my turn. 

Radioactive Puma green-black sausage thick laces. 
My body locked like legos as I threw out some poses,

in the reflection of the glass door. Behind the bins an oversized 
sheet of cardboard would become our recycled dance-floor. 

Hooded nylon jackets circled me, left elbow jabbed into my belly. 
Elbow touching my hipbone. A boombox hanging out the window. 

Cars slowed down on the street, freestyling till I found the beat. 
Balanced on a sweat banded-left hand, I would kick my legs 

hard and spin. Body straight as a fin. The world and friends 
beginning to blend. Legs tucked in to catch my weight. 

Dipped shoulder into a headstand, 
synchronized clap of hands.