Her hand in mine, we walk together slowly,
In the diminishing heat and softening light
Of a sultry midsummer’s southern afternoon
Down Maycomb’s main residential street-
All pastel clapboard, wide verandahs, floral baskets and shady trees.
Despite the dusty road, the weeds persisting in the sidewalk cracks,
The sense is all of order-of a certain quiet confidence.
We pass the Radley lot unscathed and head for town,
Going by a lady bonneted and tending her azaleas,
Exuding happy industry, while another, older, scowls
From her wheelchair, shrouded in shawls-
No pistol evident, her camelias still intact.
Passing Jitney Jungle’s shop window in the square,
I notice our reflection and, beyond, the sullen jailhouse,
Where a hastily rigged light bulb hangs naked,
Above a simple wooden chair.
Opposite, in the Courthouse, behind its false facade,
I guess there’s talk of ugly acts and uglier attitudes persist,
Ingrained like dirt, beneath a grubby schoolboy’s nails,
And Atticus wipes his glasses, staring through the window,
Pensive, unseeing, across the square at me,
While I wonder, doubting, if my child
Will ever be gently urged,
“Stand up, your father’s passing.”
Steve Lang
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-reading-to-kill-a-mockingbird-with-my-daughter/
