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...ETERNITY BLUES by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SACRAL DREAMS OF RAMON FERNANDEZ by JAMES GALVIN THE AWAKENING by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE COLOR SERGEANT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON A LITTLE GIRL'S PRAYER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 4. DIFFERENCE OF OPINION WITH LYGDAMUS by EZRA POUND |