I see the weary face of humanity. No, I am not William Blake. I am not Walt Whitman. I was at a buffet. A robust black man attempts to stab a deviled egg, slips on the fake terrazzo and his sister shrieks. Pearl tells me, "Don't get old, kid." I used to feel weary meant getting older. Now even in the eyes of the young weariness is cloaked by shocks of energy. Weary is not the decimation of youth. She is paired with us as pair, like a personification?Maybe.
I am an educator and a writer. I was born in Louisiana and I now live in the Big Apple. My heart beats to the rhythm of "Ain't No Place to Pee on Mardi Gras Day". My style is of the hot sauce variety. I love philosophy sprinkles and a hot cup of café au lait.