Frank Marshall Davis

I would be A painter with words Creating sharp portraits On the wide canvas of your mind Images of those things Shaped through my eyes That interest me; But being a Tenth American In this democracy I sometimes sketch a miniature Though I contract for a mural. Of course You understand this democracy; One man as good as another, From log cabin to White House, Poor boy to corporation president, Hoover and Browder with one vote each, A free country, Complete equality— Yeah— And the rich get tax refunds, The poor get relief checks. As for myself I pay five cents for a daily synopsis of current history, Two bits and the late lowdown on Hollywood, Twist a dial for Stardust or Shostakovich, And with each bleacher stub I reserve the right to shout “kill the bum” at the umpire— Wherefore am I different From nine other Americans? But listen, you Don’t worry about me I rate! I’m Convert 4711 at Beulah Baptist Church, I’m Social Security No. 337-16-3458 in Washington, Thank you Mister God and Mister Roosevelt! And another thing:— No matter what happens I too can always call in a policeman!

I Eagerly Like a woman hurrying to her lover Night comes to the room of the world And lies, yielding and content Against the cool round face Of the moon. II Night is a curious child, wandering Between earth and sky, creeping In windows and doors, daubing The entire neighborhood With purple paint. Day Is an apologetic mother Cloth in hand Following after. III Peddling From door to door Night sells Black bags of peppermint stars Heaping cones of vanilla moon Until His wares are gone Then shuffles homeward Jingling the gray coins Of daybreak. IV Night’s brittle song, sliver-thin Shatters into a billion fragments Of quiet shadows At the blaring jazz Of a morning sun.

(Sonata for an Orchestra) Chicago is an overgrown woman wearing her skyscrapers like a necklace ... Chicago’s blood is kaleidoscopic Chicago’s heart has a hundred auricles *       *       * From the Congo to Chicago is a long trek —as the crow flies