Black people in america may not be made for the truth we wrap our lives in disco and sunday sermons while selling false dreams to our children. Each time I go out to walk the dog. Things have come to that. And each night I get the same number. And when they will not come to be counted, I count the holes they leave.
Nobody sings anymore.
Only she on her knees, peeking into Her own clasped hands. But I hear the living rush far away from my heart Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever than ked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well.