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Albuquerque, New Mexico, 1951

These days the birds start singing
before dawn, calling up the sun,
like the Native American tribe
that performed a ritual
every day to help
their Father the sun
come up over the horizon.

I remember the car
my family had, a 1947 Kaiser,
a huge, gray, overturned boat
of a car, with a back seat big
as a bed, and I remember
the sorrow I felt
when my father sold it
and bought the little maroon Ford,
which I hated for not being
the Kaiser; my life was such
that every loss
made my world smaller
and darker, made me feel
like the sun never would
come up again.