Roman Kyle

Hatty

Harlem, New York 1927. Its evening time, the sun faintly smiles from the clouds, cool breeze as the smell of rain-soaked soil fills your lungs. Langston Hughes the big cheese himself is having a book signing across the street for his new collection of poetry. I could be in that speakeasy introducing myself, shaking his hand after he finishes placing his signature in a copy of his new book I purchased, enjoying the hibiscus and lemon cake they placed out for those who attended. Instead, I’m up here hanging for my life in one hand and an old trumpet in other hand, praying to the Almighty that I will not die.