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God sees me. I see you. You’re just like me.
This is the cul-de-sac I’ve longed to live on.
Pure-white and dormered houses sit handsomely
along the slate-roofed, yew-lined neighborhood.
Past there is where my daughters walk to school,
across the common rounded by a wood.
And in my great room, a modest TV
informs me how the earth is grown so small,
ringed in spice routes of connectivity.
My father lived and died in his same chair
and kept it to one beer. There’s good in that.
Who could look down upon, or even dare
to question, what he managed out of life?
Age makes us foolish. Still, he had a house,
a patch of grass and room to breathe, a wife.
It’s my house now, and I do as I please.
I bless his name. I edge the yard, plant greens.
Our girls swing on the porch in a coming breeze.
David Yezzi is the author of Birds of the Air (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2013). He teaches in the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University and lives in Baltimore, Maryland.