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My Grandpa Harry
by Burgess Needle

My Grandpa Harry was an angry sixty-five with a fixed
stare in a patch of time captured by Kodak.
He flexed his foot on a metal tread all his adult life
sewing stitches far from the milk and honey
he’d imagined on the crossing.
His skittish wife, Fanny, peered out the window
while Harry stared down the track at Suffolk Downs
or across a bed of green felt at an impossible shot.
When he keeled over at the track
they had to pry a losing bet
from his nicotine-stained fingers.

Every Crow in the Blue Sky  

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