Once I wrote a book of poems
about my father
but they do not reveal the man
with a raccoon's blue eyes
who brewed beer in the basement,
who drove off every Friday
and returned Sunday nights with
a buck tied to the roof of our Rambler.
The poems just sit up all night
thinking how my family feels like
a quiet town with an old mystery
that no one talks about
but me.
that no one talks about
but me.
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