the gang | wilma elizabeth mcdaniel
apparitions of my father, 1887-1946
he doesn't come to me on
sundays in his good serge suit
and black string tie, piously
carrying a bible, never
but put me in a saturday town
of khaki men with southwest
faces and rich slow tongues
and he will blow around the corner
on a prince albert wind, live like cherokee
blue-glass, as in scotch, eyes
carrying a little poke of candy
maybe jellybeans
spot me with no trouble
smile as he did last time
and say sister,
you wanna go eat a bowl
of chili at poor boy's café
and I will get up from the bench
in front of j. c. penney's
and go to meet him
as I always do
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