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Friday, May 25, 2012


I remember

playing tin-roof songs
and me wearing nothing but tightie-whities,
running circles around our house.
I was three—or four—
and the house, by American standards, was
a concrete shack on some jungle hilltop.
But it was the mansion
my mother bought us with money
sweated and saved,
scrimped and slaved for
in countries other than Home.

You watched me from the front steps,
Kept (mostly) dry by the overhang,
smiling each time I passed.

I laughed: a child at bath time.

Taken in 1995. With my mother, Ana. The Cowbird Tribute [Here]