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...ON A CHILD by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 51. WILLOWWOOD (3) by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE GRAPE-VINE SWING by WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS BOTHWELL: PART 1 by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN MY DEAREST WIFE by WILLIAM BARNES THE YEARS TO BE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |