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Your
Step-Father Ulysses
In these days of his dying,
I wish I could make the old man
a mythic wanderer. But
this sailor stayed true to
his docks. Sixteen-hour shifts,
then home to bed. Long-
shoreman cunning at loading cargo,
shipping everything away.
He held onto nothing but coins.
Pacific sirens could not sing
to him. One-eyed Polyphemus
of the parking meter
looked through the worn quarter
of his face and recognized
him: not even No Man.
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