| Your eye misses nothing;
perhaps your natural grace
keeps your focus straight ahead
so you never notice
my lace curtains turning in the breeze
as you pass my house at sunset.
You round your corner
and sweep your children up
into your arms. You’d never guess,
my white knight,
how long I’ve watched you,
your three-piece linen suit,
stand against the mindless Sarum mob.
Though I know you put your gun away in youth,
you’re still a shooter sharp enough to
kill a rabid dog, single shot.
Did your heart race like mine?
I see your eye, too, at home,
for raising kids alone.
When your wife’s young heart stopped
I cried. Integrity like yours,
I can smell:
An August day’s honest sweat,
faint scent of Old Spice,
talcum and starched shirt. I dream,
you comfort me at dusk.
We read the news uncensored,
life exposed unvarnished.
We balance in your chair
My strong oak and I.
Atticus, they’ll name their offspring for you,
courts will dedicate your statue.
I know you have an extra room in back.
Calpurnia needs a break.
I’ll sell my house,
I’ll help your causes, watch your children,
Alexandra can bring all your next of kin
from Finch’s Landing.
Your brother, Jack, can tease me anytime;
I’ll never pester Arthur Radley
with angel food or questions.
Take a risk, Atticus,
and give Miss Stephanie some gossip.
Walk in my dainty shoes.
Crawl into my powdered skin.
Maycomb’s a slow town, and I’ve
plenty of time. |
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