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Hodgepodge dilly-dally. Pocket pieces

I knew my Grandfather only by the words of my Mother. She had no accent but talked of him with his touch of County Antrim

you have his legs, Joe, sure

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and he was beef to the ankles

like a Droughtery Bullock

He shared his play on Atlantic City sands with cousins and in-laws, men and women. They stood Brady-stiff for the camera man and hung so on my mother's bedroom wall

what a floater he was, Joe Boy,

you'd see just his bald head,

his tummy and his toes

bobbing and corking in the swells

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These few beach stones I tumble in my dark pocket, take them one by one into the light in the low slanting sun, to see and read their ghostly lines.

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