It's unremarkable. Like most other Brownstones in Harlem. The hand railing saw it's last coat of paint years ago, what's left is broken and rusting. The front door is missing a knob, one of the lamp lights is out. A dozen flies race, jump, and skat across the steps as if Langston was upstairs listening to Jazz. Half dead vines stretch down from the roof, waiting to be revived, much like this historic piece of Harlem's past.
I was drawn to his poetry by the simplicity. The way he was able to distill a place, an experience, into concise prose. His words bouncing and bopping to the rhythm of the Renaissance. He seemed to so easily connect to the soul, the vein, of each moment....to float in the notes of everyday life, while communicating it's reality.
Would he care if his Harlem home was preserved? I can't be sure. He'd probably be somewhere listening to music or observing the city around him, rather than sitting on some famous dead guys stoop. But here I am anyway, paying my respects. Finding the music between the flies as they bip, skat, and zip, by.