Friday

Temporary Title

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin 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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I have neither titled nor given credit to this poem on purpose. I will do so over the weekend.