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Click hereThe day I went with my father to work
because my baby brother was sick
I didn't know then what it meant,
but I didn't like the sound of the k,
like Jimmy scratching his fingernails
on Mrs. Philbrick's blackboard
or "No, Virginia, there isn't
a Santa Claus coming to town"
that week before Christmas when Daddy
punched out the clock at the end of the day
in a warehouse of men who smelled
like bologna we bought before Sunday
markets closed so we all could pray
for dented cans of fuckin' peas
or fuckin' corn or fuckin' string beans.