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It was Jimmy who hung the cheesecloth sac
Of crimson marbles—shooters—from our tree
That night in April
So we’d rub our eyes at breakfast, needing
To believe the cherry—earth still raw
Around its roots—had fruited while we slept.

But when he swung out that morning
—Glitzy chrome and whitewalls sparkling—
Into oncoming traffic
Because the black van ahead was dawdling,
It was his brother Tom, riding shotgun,
Who yelped: ‘Jimmy! That’s mother’s coffin.’