Mrs Stanton
Mrs. Stanton
In a little adobe bungalow
On the back of a lot in old El Paso,
Behind cacti and sand in s fantasy land,
Lived Mrs. Stanton, a writer.
Her days were spent among papers and books,
Dressed in calico and pinned white hair,
She hummed and expressed smile and frown,
As she imagined what stories might sell.
A curious next door nine year old
Timidly knocked, hearing her typewriter.
“Hello, dear, will you have tea with me?”
Little Nine stands straight, a “grown-up”
For Mrs. Stanton.
She enters that cluttered paper-filled room
And Mrs. Stanton notes her expressions,
As she bounces a plot or two to little Nine,
Observing her child’s reaction.
Happy days passed as the little girl asked
A million questions of the lady,
Someday she a writer would be
For the love of Mrs. Stanton.
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