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When my father
There is no good way to hear of death, unless it be of an enemy, and then you want to be there
to make sure the bastard’s dead — hopefully to see he’s suffered the way he made you suffer.
This is what history had taught me.
When my father came to tell me of my mother’s death
he was already dead a long time, as was she. I have a picture of him
just before he tells me. He pulls up, gets out of his car,
and comes toward me. I climb over the barrier to greet him.
He looks somewhat distressed. I hold him after he tells me, doing my best to comfort him.
But it is my mother we’re mourning. Now one side of her face won’t droop, or her eyes search into space,
lonely and lost. Afterward, I come back over barrier.
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When my father
Here I stand
Postcard 1943
Smiles at mountains
Saving the roses
Guy time
Real Estate
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Neal Spitzer, artist, realist painter of people, paintings, portraits, portrait commissions, limited edition archival prints Poetry in Public Places Neal Spitzer, artist, realist painter of people, paintings, portraits, portrait commissions, limited edition archival prints Poetry in Public Places Neal Spitzer, artist, realist painter of people, paintings, portraits, portrait commissions, limited edition archival prints Poetry in Public Places Neal Spitzer, artist, realist painter of people, paintings, portraits, portrait commissions, limited edition archival prints
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