"echoed through his head"
4 years ago
There’s a Langston Hughes poem, Weary Blues, that I carry a piece of around in my head. I love the rhythm of it.
And far into the night, he crooned that tune.
The sun went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
while the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
It’s fun to roll a piece of poetry around in your head while standing in line, riding the subway, or sitting at a stop light.
