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Deadheads

Deadheads   Besides confections and gravies,              Sweet, crunchy—                                 Smooth and lumpless,                         Models of perfections,             And presents from “Santa”—             Still into my twenties—                         Socks and soaps-on-ropes,             And bitten tongues                          Vittles crowding out curses,             And semi-sweet, stern orders:                         Keep chopping                                     Those nuts,                         Keep sifting                                     That flour,                         Keep stirring                                     That pot,                                     No, stop. This was always the season of Gram, When she shone,             Herself, the spotlight                         The spotter couldn’t                         Keep in frame.   The summer was Grampa’s—             And the early autumn—              All in preparation for Gram’

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