Memere always said
Uncle Jack drank too much, falling
asleep with his Miller
in front of the Red Sox
but he dismissed her as easily
as he brushed me away, as easily
as he ate memere's lemon pies.
He haunted her ice box, brooded
on the back porch dreaming
writing.
Even though my Uncle Jack littered
back rooms with ink pens, plaid
shirts, manuscripts and empty
bottles of Tokay and Port wine
I never felt him there.
My Uncle Jack said EVERYONE
always came home in October.
He did too, in a pine box with a
swollen frown burned into his sad
dead face.
I hate to think he was born
the same way he died.
Uncle Jack was never home.
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