#AmericanWriters
How quiet It is in this sick room Where on the bed A silent woman lies between two lo… Life and Death,
Have you dug the spill Of Sugar Hill? Cast your gims On this sepia thrill: Brown sugar lassie,
We passed their graves: The dead men there, Winners or losers, Did not care. In the dark
Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal… It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up,
It’s such a Bore Being always Poor.
The gold moth did not love him So, gorgeous, she flew away. But the gray moth circled the flam… Until the break of day. And then, with wings like a dead d…
What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run?
I worked for a woman, She wasn’t mean— But she had a twelve—room House to clean. Had to get breakfast,
I went to the Gypsy’s. Gypsy settin’ all alone. I said, Tell me, Gypsy, When will my gal be home? Gypsy said, Silver,
Now dreams Are not available To the dreamers, Nor songs To the singers.
I look at the world From awakening eyes in a black fac… And this is what I see: This fenced—off narrow space Assigned to me.
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
I could take the Harlem night and wrap around you, Take the neon lights and make a cr… Take the Lenox Avenue busses, Taxis, subways,
Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple?