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             My Son Drips Popsicles About The House 

                                         By Wayne Jackson 1950-1989 

 
            My son drips popsicles about the house

            and offers me a bite

            which I take

                   tasting the memories

                   of May greened apples

                   and cotton candied fairs

                   and snow creamed Decembers

            that leave with my swallowing

            I wish for another taste

            But he is elsewhere dripping.