poems, mostly metrical, and rants and raves on poets, poetry, and the po-biz (with 8-string stuff)
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An Old Sonnet, for my Daughter Lee

Old Songs


When I got home my wife was gone, and so

I bought a mandolin—eight more strings

To tie me to a world I didn’t know,

In which my daughter’s fenced from me by rings

Of law and fear. Almost the only things

Her mother let us share before the end

Were meals and music. Maybe she still sings

“I’ll Meet You in the Morning” with a friend,

And thinks of me, and remembers how we’d spend

Our Wednesdays with a funny jugband song,

A round, a Scottish air. I could depend

On her to get them right when I was wrong—

Her ear was better. She was eight years old.

What songs we sang when she was mine to hold!

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