of my childhood.
My mother's
friends
lit their Camels
between Cokes
on Saturdays at
the local drug store.
My dad plowed
the corn
with his Lucky
Strikes
in his shirt pocket.
The crimson
circle on the white
pack, the golden
camel on hers
were images transferring
meaning to
letters, my eyes
learning to read.
Her moon
eclipsed his sun,
the ring of fire
that held
them, comforted
me
on darkened nights
curled to dream of
camels and pyramids
and the journey home
in our Studebaker sedan.
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