The poem that follows was written by Edgar O. Lake and was read recently at the Florence Williams Public Library on the occasion Sharon Robinson, the daughter of Jackie Robinson, read from her book: Jackie’s Nine: Jackie Robinson’s Values to Live By, 2001, Scholastic, New York at the library's Story Hour...Reading Time@Your Library.  Lake (left) presents a poster from his private collection, titled "Before You Can Say Jackie Robinsion--Black Baseball in New Jersey and America in the era of the Color Line 1885 to 1950 for viewing at in the library to Sharon Robinson.

THE LIFT a poem by Edgar O. Lake

I sat in front Biblioteque Francais, my first winter; St. Patrick's bell struck six
      New Yorkers rushed inside to light candles, and whisper enshrined prayers
I sat in my first winter coat, navy blue and lined; bone buttons smote the light
      All day, the passport aspirants fashioned a Georgian ration line; now released
They sat outside and ate pretzels, and watched the rat race scurry by,
      Some errant trumpeter played a gospel song, begun as blind clarinetist
But switching trains, changed faith with colder weather, sensing pathos

Some over-muscled Atlas, cotched against the marble waterfall distracted toddlers
      Taking first-steps, above the slippery fantasies of flight on polished ice
when some legend stepped out of that stony fortress, nicely graying around the temples
      families hurrying in the wind, side-stepped his pigeon-toed black brogues
His slim briefcase swinging playfully; he thwarts a doorman's shrill whistle; gesturing
      against the sunlight, without fanfare.  A black limousine pulls up
and quickly, our first-base man, salt and pepper-grained base-running hero, steps in

A street-sweeper comes along, whisking along the small glance that he'd dropped
      There was no salute by the doorman, only the smallest angled adjusting
of the police barricades which read: No Parking, Reserved.  It would stay until Monday
      bright and early, averting the bright eyes some early-morning elevator-man
greeting him with that Brooklyn Dodger smile; and, while cranking up that handle
      "Yes, Sir. Mr. Jackie Robinson.  Sir, Have a Good Day, Sir. Thank You Sir."
Brass doors close; Jackie's endless vertical climb, behind art deco facades, still fielding