Tin Type

“I saw her yesterday, again, in an antiques shop,


cotton floral dress,

dusty rusty gray and faded silver-oxide blacks,

a 20th century still-life in motion, tin type, I think,

I want to bring her here,

now, impossibly,


would my America scare her?”


My last duty here,

ten days ago, I buried my grandfather with

his cherished tin-type, its wedged in

folded musing 

to himself.

I must not hold on longer, we need

high ground, and better food.







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