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The town has lost its bell
With its fathers inside—

What then is the ringing at
This funeral? Possibly I am

Not myself—whose laughing
Has become this parade?

If you were to break into
The set-back, immense houses,

You’d have your run of
Things no one’s coming home

For, anyway. Girls go by
Twirling wooden guns;

Dead soldiers go by twirling
Dead soldiers. Nearby,

A kid’s face turns purple
From the colored ice—wish

It different, under trees over
Our graves. Our bodies—

The floats turning away onto
Side streets, into the house

I grew up in. The house I
Will die in. A man sweeping,      

A mother looking for
Her children, a whistle leading

Traffic back onto Main Street.
Two blocks over and moving

Away, a brassy drum. The sound,
A porch swing, keeping time. 
Posted 02/05/13
Originally published in Bat City Review.
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