#AmericanWriters
I live on a park bench. You, Park Avenue. Hell of a distance Between us two. I beg a dime for dinner—
Tell all my mourners To mourn in red — Cause there ain’t no sense In my bein’ dead.
I play it cool I dig all jive. That's the reason I stay alive. My motto
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 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.
Fine living . . . a la carte? Come to the Waldorf—Astoria! LISTEN HUNGRY ONES! Look! See what Vanity Fair says… new Waldorf—Astoria:
He glides so swiftly Back into the grass— Gives me the courtesy of road To let me pass, That I am half ashamed
I, too, sing America. I am the darker brother. They send me to eat in the kitchen When company comes, But I laugh,
Remember The days of bondage— And remembering— Do not stand still. Go to the highest hill
By what sends the white kids I ain’t sent: I know I can’t be President.
Where is the Jim Crow section On this merry—go—round, Mister, cause I want to ride? Down South where I come from White and colored
The calm, Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss.
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,
Listen! Dear dream of utter aliveness— Touching my body of utter death— Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliv… The flaming source of your bright…
When the old junk man Death Comes to gather up our bodies And toss them into the sack of obl… I wonder if he will find The corpse of a white multi—millio…