Shadow cleaves the cool arcade of tourist shops from sunlight as he's severed from the language of the skin he shares with buyers of his ballpoint pens. A ten-year-old genuine Norman Rockwell freckle-faced kid, his mouth only knows his mother's tongue. He's a lagniappe from her clientele, a providence she sends begging to fill the rice bowl broken by his birth. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HILL WIFE: THE IMPULSE by ROBERT FROST SHEEP AND LAMBS by KATHARINE TYNAN THE SOFTNESS OF SYBARIS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS PHILOCTETES: PHILOCTETES CALLS FOR DEATH by AESCHYLUS TO HIS MISTRESS; AN ODE by ANACREON BROADWAY IN THE OZARKS: NIGHT by BETTY CORBETT BASSETT HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 41 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH BIARTEY'S SPINNING SONG, FR. THE RIDING TO LITHEND by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |