when my father dies
I hope he gets himself onto a steam train
the jiggering track, rickety ticking
buffalo blood windows
that old steel smell, paste and
the sky hurtling by, clouds like pie
crust
I hope he crumbles up into them
I hope maybe
he'll feel like an American
or find a country he likes better
I can see the pitchy tracks pushing into the ocean
and by sundown
he'll be eating tea and kidneys
on Bloomsday
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