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.