beer, bread and chipped ham. It was Easter Sunday.
Bells from a dozen churches filled the air
in this small steel town where the unemployed
perpetually keep beer gardens open.
You’d yelled: ‘Yunz better worsh them dishes
and redd up things before yunz go outside.’
You said you’d had enough of eating jumbo
and food stamps didn’t make a difference.
We didn’t know you’d go by way of Altoona,
that you’d go ghost on mommy and us kids.
You left behind a bloodstain in your truck,
the lasting memory of onion snow.

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