Frustrated of late, I thought of Lorraine Hansberry’s play and then of Langston Hughes poem, Harlem:

Harlem

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

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?

I used an upbeat photo of the poet, but the subject matter is more somber