Midnight is no time for Poetry.
The heart is much too calm
The spirit too lagging and dull.
With the sunshine in one's eyes and breath.
And all the pink clouds
Like chiffon in a dressing gown
And the orange-white mists
That leap and furl.
Ah, I should greet the morning
As though I never saw a morning before
And only heard that it
was this or that,
Gossip that was good either way,
There being nothing derogatory to say.
And in that strange-white mist
I'd be content to go upon the paths
with neither shoes nor hat
winding my way away from home
much like a
Holding vibrations of laughter in my
That floated from who knows where
and goes who-less-could-care.
There are no orange-white mists
They are a world away
Midnight is not time for Poetry
©1974 American Negro Poetry: An Anthology