Mr. Hughes,

you wrote your poems as simple ones
of and for a people who pawned
possessions for Christmas gifts,
the kind of verse little girls
jump rope to, adding words
Miss Mary
     Mack,
Mack,     Mack,
All dressed in
      black,
black,     black,
tasting mint juleps
on the veranda
with my mammy
      black,
black,     black.
You knew as well the smell of butts
the size of nicotine fingertips,
the scent of cats, human drool
trapped in tenement hallways,
hopeful choruses from choirs and pews,
and gandydancers on the track,
singing sweet and sour blues.