100 Feet Tall

One time I met Mr. T in New York in the 80s I was 7∕8-ish, waiting for a table at Carnegie With my family who did not always agree on what was wavy But would shut up once a week because we loved our fucking A-Team Pops seen him sitting there, beard and Mandinka hair Whispered so that we could hear, "guys, Mr. T is here" Mr. T is fucking real?, I mean I know he's real It's just we only seen him on TV, he's like a superhero to us We were trying to catch a glimpse, my mama said "don't make a scene He probably having lunch with friends, I think they 'bout to pay and leave" I'd never seen a famous person let alone Baracus He bout to walk right by us, that's more than I could process I felt a mighty presence entering my elbow room Looked up and seen the rings, each its own yellow moon I seen enough gold to break the average neck in two Feather hanging from the ear, gear that say don't mess with you No fools, no suckas Be good to your mother No dummies, no punks I pity every last one One, one, one Mr. T's a hundred feet tall (He's five foot ten) Arms like trucks, probably punch through a wall My father said his name and sorta nodded to acknowledge him Which would in turn confirm that this was not some type of hologram Big, warm smile earring to earring From a television toughie to endearing it's eerie Started rubbing his belly, then a quip for the pups "It take a place like this to fill Mr. T up" Get it? For those of you who don't know the establishment They're famous in Manhattan for serving gigantic sandwiches We shared a laugh about the portions A humanizing peek behind the on-screen performances He kept it brief, said his piece and with that Disappeared in a cloud, mystique obscenely in tact He played it perfect to a nervous kid he met at his peak We spent the meal like "holy Moses we just met Mr. T." No fools, no suckas Be good to your mother No dummies, no punks I pity every last one One, one, one Close to 40 years have passed My hair is gray, my belly's fat Still when I hear his voice I'm 7∕8-ish back on 7th Ave Now with a perspective that I never had Respect for who he's been and is, and questions I won't get to ask About this one Chicago boy, the youngest of a dozen Who was drawn to throwing suckers out the club for bringing drugs in Then scouted by Stallone who sends the Rocky part He bodies it, on Letterman he says he primarily still a bodyguard Huh, born protector, icon or community Plus network television like a rocket to the moon of cheese Pro wrestling, cartoon, comic books, records Break to beat cancer, then he back to spread the message Look, never talk to strangers Stay in school, don't hang out where the yay is Love yourself, and fuck designer labels Thank him for the guidance Thank him for the cereal, seriously it was righteous No fools, no suckas Be good to your mother No dummies, no punks I pity every last one One, one, one