Coda

The room waited,

            bated breath,

      for the verdict to come

down. Jem was certain that we’d won it;

            Reverend Sykes was none-

                  too-trumpish in tying ‘we’ to ‘won’.

      Instead, he hearkened to experience

and maybe tacitly to God,

            maker of Tom Robinson and Helen,

                  Jean Louise, Mayella,

                        Dolphus Raymond,

            Cal and Atticus—every soul in sight;

and maybe even Bob, good gawd!,

                  and certainly, using Jem’s

                        assurance, the

                              ghost in every

                                    room:

      {palpable as heartbeats on a pillow—Boo}

Then the jury woke Judge Taylor

                        Scout,

                  and all who slumber through

            an end-of-summer read.

      Tom assumes the walking dead,

                        the truer Boo that folks could say

                  they somewhat knew,

even in the pages now unglued.

      I’m with Jem in hoping,

            Sykes for standing up for

                  something, even little Dill as

                              stowaway;

            I’m amply thrown apart each time

                  I entertain a

mockingbird {fluting in my heart}