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At the hood.

There’s raspberries growing in the garden,
I tell my father and smile. Humph,
he says, heavily distracted with fixing Fords
and the Dylan CD he puts on when he
fixes Fords.
Heartily, he begins to sing knock knock knockin’
into the radiator or the carburetor—I was never too sure,
though I’d been told which was on the right
and which was on the left many times before—
and as he reaches the verse about the long,
black cloud, I tell him again, THERE’S RASPBERRIES
Uh, huh, he replies and
pats me on the head (either a fatherly love-gesture
or a passive fuck-off), and continues to gingerly hum
as Bob’s sandpaper vocals pour out of the ’56 Hundred
and onto the oil-ruined memory of grass
where we stand.


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