Monday, November 15, 2010


A little girl wearing a pink dress
stands by the reception desk
in the mental health clinic,
her eyes fixed on a man
holding an unopened red umbrella.
There is nothing peculiar
or remarkable about the man
except for the red umbrella
he has brought on a sunny day.

"Latisha, come here," says her mother,
a tall attractive woman with
tightly braided hair. Latisha
doesn't hear her mother. She is
gazing at the man with an umbrella.

"Latisha, What are you looking at girl,
come here." But Latisha is over there
by the reception desk, looking
at the man with the umbrella.

Her mother gets up, walks over,
gently takes the little girl's hand,
leads her to the seats. The eyes
of girl never leave the man
holding the red umbrella.

Latisha, if you would be a poet,
you must stand over there,
as if your soul depended upon it,
you must stay over there until
your mother brings you over here.
© Bob Rixon


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"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson

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