Abstract
The city teaches us todaywith brick row houses andfront stoops, bicyclists,the squeal of car brakes.Hurried drivers watch uswaiting on a sidewalk,writing on his front steps.Bikes hiss by, their spokessparkle against a grey sky.My students gazeat Langston’s windows,wondering what poem beganhere, what poem ended here,what poem was tossed away.One moment, they are a riotof laughter, shining withsilly, colliding with each other.The next, they searchthe sky for wounds.I watch them sitting on Hughes’ stoop;these are serious boys,writing words they mean,seeking words that will be truein America.I wonder about these boys.Where do they begin?Where do they end?Will America toss them away?What loneliness or lovewill carry them?
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