This appeared in Lyric.
The streets our fathers played in they describe
Over and over, looking out at air
Peopled with places we've been told were theirs,
Home to some far-fetched prehistoric tribe
Of Normans, Bobs, and Jimmies. These are now
Grandsires to a clan who do not hear.
No streetcars run down Skinker. I see how
Amid my life my life could disappear.
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