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My Grandfather's House
by John McCluskey

The rain barrel in the gangway tipped
but never spilled the clear cold water.
The string beans curled in the brief garden
by the backyard fence.

The empty garage by the alley
entombed the dusty dead tools,
until they belonged to us.

The front room glowed on
"I Love Lucy" nights.
The cement arms of the front porch
cooled the back of my evening thighs

as fireflys
 under the heavy trees of Karlov Avenue

star-lit the humid Chicago air
into 1966.


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