As Langston Hughes spins circles in his grave at my horrid misappropriation of one his most significant themes just so I could come up with clever title for this post, I am prepared to justify myself. It's with a heavy hear that I report, upon further examination of my schedule at work today, that I DO NOT have a day off on the day the Super Bowl will be aired here in Japan (by 'aired' I mean that it will be on live Monday morning Japanese Standard Time; I'll be following it via the Internet).
This will be no problem actually, UNLESS the Patriots are involved, in which case, the distraction known as 'work' will inhibit my ability to devote full rivited attention to the game. And so it goes.
In deference to Mr. Hughes, I've dusted off my old English Literature book, from which I will now recite one of his poems with the hope the title of this post will be just a little less of a blatant rip-off.
'Harlem'
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a rasin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
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