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after E. E. Cummings
   My father moved through dooms--period.
   Each morning turning
   the faucets on and off
   while shaving to save on the water,
   the plumbing hit high C, rattled my dreams
   and those of the dog scratching to be let out
   of the cellar and barking to be let in.
   My father rode the Greyhound to the Maritime Commission,
   clerked assiduously
   in the white cowboy hat he bought himself in Texas,
   what with cherry vanilla ice cream in the cafeteria
   and lemon pie at home from mother--he was lucky.
   He did not rage against the dying of the light
   but went from room to room turning them off,
   grumbling, then tipped the shades and beamed 60 watts
   right in your face if you were trying to read
   for fear you might need glasses.
   Occasionally he sang
   or prayed out loud so long it made me sweat.
   He was good at painting wrought-iron rails.
   He taught me how to sneeze in public,
   to hate tight belts;
   he was a blue-plate special.
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Title Annotation:poetry
Author:McGuffin, Jane
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2019
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