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Sunday Afternoon

ISSUE:  Spring 1993
Clem was playing the accordian
His children All eighteen
Were outside creating snow creatures

White crows Rimy tree shrews
Iced cobras Gigantic frosted ants
Glacial triceratopses

His children wore wreaths of white air
They were like his death
Cold Faraway Very silent

Through the thick panes of window glass
Down the sloping orchard hill
Wild in excess of a first Omaha snow

Why have I locked them out for two hours
Why do I want to play just one song
The Red River Valley over and over

I don’t know
It sounds good to me Like their making
And I love the way it lets me feel

He looked at his son’s philosophy books
And smiled He looked at his daughter’s
Packet of birth control pills

He dove into the accordian again
Holding in his mind the violin’s notes
As he played that song of pure memory

The snow outside blowing
Twilight’s purple shadow riding high
Down then up the whitewashed ravine

While the music seeped outside
His joy still growing
Like yeast under grains of powdered wheat


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