A Grey Day
Today. The streets are wet, puddles lingering waiting for a tire to splash them away. The wind is blowing through ripping off the last few remaining yellow leaves clinging on to the branches. Determined little leaves having made it through the winter. A slow day. A day for refection. A day for writing. No words of wisdom from me. I leave you with the slow, whiskey soaked words of my favorite poem written by Langston Hughes. You can feel the heat of the South. The sweat sliding down your neck. Smell the cigarette smoke swirling around your head. Eyes closed, you sway back and forth, listening to the thick, raspy baritone of pain and sadness. The Weary Blues Droning a drowsy syncopated tune, Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon, I heard a Negro play. Down on Lenox Avenue the other night By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light He did a laz...