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A Poem for Richard
By E. Ethelbert Miller At two and three in the morning
when sleep walks away like a lover
I think of Richard Wright
Dead at fifty-two
He lived in a small apartment in
France
alone without Ellen or the kids
A few days before Wright died
Langston Hughes knocked on his
door
Here was the poet of Harlem
saying hello to the black boy and
native son
I think about Langston looking
into Richard's eyes and searching
for a river
Maybe the Mississippi moving one
more day
down the delta with the blues |