Scout Finch still dreams about Boo Radley

By Celeste Schantz

Scout Finch Still Dreams About Boo Radley 

In the notch of the live oak tree 
I left two clementines, 
a rusted bottle cap with a green star 
and a toy donkey with tall ears 
poking through an old straw hat.

I wonder, did you ever get all that, Boo?
It was wrapped in a worn man’s handkerchief 
like a fledgling heart tucked within restless boughs,
traded for two shining pennies and our lives 
once long ago in the purple blackbird evening.

Now, whenever the hunching black dog 
prowls these streets I run home to you again. 
I am scratched, skin-kneed peering 
over to your yard, checking to see 
if you’re there behind pale whispers of leaves.

For Lethe-eyed drunks still 
proselytize in the pool halls of Old Sarum;
our small town cleans house now and then, but 
evil is a reliable tenant 
who always settles back in  

and I can picture you now
keeping watch under that tree. You look up 
at the lazy clouds of Maycomb 
scraping over our old house,   

pale ghosts slipping past my bedroom window;    
silent clouds drifting over Alabama. 
You watch me, the clouds, just slip- 
slipping away under 
the beautiful unjust moon.