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      May 6, 2012Edison DupreePoem for Frank Owens

      At recess, on the playground’s wide white powder,
      we found the little ant-lion pits to plunder
      with our sharp twigs. We stirred in circles, softly,
      and chanted Doodlebug, come, come get your coffee,
      till he came rampaging up in a puff of talcum,
      snapping his jaws, and between two stones we broke him.
      We took the unclean stones and pitched them hard
      at pigeons on the phone wire overhead,
      and missed. We watched our missiles arc back down
      like meteors to the pocked cheek of the moon,
      producing two small clouds of dust,
      which drifted up together and got lost.

       

      from #28 - Winter 2007

      Edison Dupree

      “I grew up in Kinston, NC, where the events described in this poem take place. I now live in Cambridge, MA, and work in the library at Harvard University.”