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Dreaming About My Father

We're painting the old house in the Hudson Valley
and we're a team, applying the paint so smoothly
that not a drop gets spilled, it's all cream, and
for the first time he has no complaints about
the way I work. "Good job" he says and smiles
when we climb down the ladders and take a break
for a beer. He tells me again about how he loves
this place, how he loves the country, how poor
his family was, growing up in Brooklyn—how ashamed
he was that my grandmother had to take in washing

and scrubbed steps to meet the rent on their
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Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: dream
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