For Langston Hughes
Langston, what did Texas look like back then,
where were you going?
From your seat on the train, the small table,
you encouraged your pen pals,
timid Baltimore sisters,
who had shared their writing with you,
and no one else.
Sure you can do it. You are doing it!
Sent them gloriously handwritten
black-inked letters . . .
sentences trailing across pages on neat tracks—
drew pictures in margins—hills outside the window,
a dining car waiter with a white towel folded over his
arm.
You had time on your beautiful ride, so much space to stare into, horizons of thinking.
I believe in you. Don’t let anyone tell you
otherwise.
You knew what it was to be a busboy, wipe tables,
contemplate crusts, dregs of tea in a cup.
Urging your pen pals to remember their dreams
whatever shape they might be.
You were ready for the next installment . . . there were ways to get anywhere you wanted to go,
if you really want to go.
And the land opened up in front of you.
The long land.
And the years in which you would be writing to every one of us
every day.