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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.’