First thoughts on waking up to the death of Phife of A Tribe Called Quest

A .45
matte black, two pounds
just metal and plastic


I’m scared of 45

Not a .45
because men live
and men die
No one escapes time

But Guru is gone
Now Phife is gone
Ruck is gone

and my feeling
of invincibility
makes me want to run

get out of this chair and run
eat better
I’m afraid of my heart
I’m afraid of my weight
I’m afraid of 45

and it’s coming on fast
like lines from the 5 foot assassain

45 looms
spins on the turntable
black, only a few grams
“by the way my name’s Malik,”

the hammer slams
the needle lifts