Two clothespins held the August heat
and several hundred more
the stories
of sweat and poverty
between Harlem windows.
A few notes
decidedly un— blue,
joyous,
rode the stifling air
up up to windows
of broken down tenements.
James P.
was working a shout,
some Carolina thing
he thought.
A clothesline ballet
was also splitting
the same cranky ether.
Fats lent all the
beautiful, bouncing,
dancing buns
wiggling
in the evening heat
a gladder than happy
reprieve
from clothespin
dominations
and children—
screaming for more.
A rent party later,
tubs of gin,
and innumerable choruses
of Ain't Misbehavin'
rendered all thoughts
of clothespins
(not ballets)
and Harlem heat
impertinent.
The music of life
always changes things.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A well crafted fun poem.....10++