I think I'll buy a book tomorrow; maybe an autobiography of a young black kid who made it big; defying odds and urban statisticians who had him in the pen by 19;
a shallow grave by 29
with pages of preparation and focus; perseverance when failure became a formidable foe; a social sledgehammer slamming him back into his basement studio with the rodents, chronic unemployment and piles of unpaid bills
and diplomas on the wall framed in gold and mahogany
and photographs of fleeting scenes of success and hope
banished by fate?
am I destined to be old, gifted and poor like my fathers before me?
what dreadful deed or sin has sealed my destiny with such savage sorrow?
maybe my hero, the young black kid in the book I'll buy tomorrow