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...CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD by HAYDEN CARRUTH HOMING BRAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON INEVITABLY (2) by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: THE GOVERNOR by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO W.P.: 4 by GEORGE SANTAYANA |