I do not recall having been oppressed,
a situation I cannot completely comprehend.
Nor have I ever been the oppressor.
The blessing and curse of my
white skin does not by its mere existence,
instill in me that inclination.
Nor does this curse and blessing
prevent me from being enthralled by
or listening — eyes closed, slight smile −
to the saxophone of Charlie Parker.
I have to wonder though, even in this modern age,
if I would be welcome at a table with Langston
in a club predominantly, distinctly, black,
listening to The Weary Blues.
I would like that; to be in that smoky room,
full of vibrant sound and life, to watch his face as he
absorbs all the room gives…smiles…
takes pen in hand.
At dVerse today Victoria asks for a Literary Allusion Poem. Due to certain time constraints I am posting a piece I have been holding on to for a while. I think it fits the prompt. The Weary Blues, by Langston Hughes.