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