Uncle David, it was you
at Southport Pleasureland,
the apple of the Caterpillar ride
behind your grey puffer jacket.
I was no longer six or seven
but it was still you, tiptoeing,
beaming at the Big Dipper,
screamers who would survive.
You, about to take my hand,
and carry the fish I had won
with your help for a short while.
I found a photo of her standing once
walking the German Shepherd
in a deep 80s snow, her mittened hands
not yet the clam fists that I knew.
Spectator near blind and never for play,
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