It comes as a stark reminder in a text snapshot,
My infant grandson, sprawled smiling on the stone block in D.C.:
I have a dream,
The great King’s legacy.
When I was born, there was no articulated dream.
Only the dream in the hearts of those who could not speak it.
The arrogant looks, beatings, shootings, lynchings.
My parents, unawares, could not dream.
Now, my son, the father of my grand boy, can dream.
He placed his wriggly son on that sun-drenched stone today.
Yes, Dr. King, my grandson may well walk hand and hand with your great-granddaughter.
Not for everyone yet.
But I still have a dream.
Published in Social Justice Poetry