John G. Sadlouskos
I bought my nephew, Andy, a black velvet, ceramic bull,
that doubles as a piggy bank, old-fashion style,
the kind you have to break open to get the money.
I signed a dollar, "To Andy, from your Uncle John,"
then dropped it in the slash, I filled it with my change,
shaking it up good to get the dollar on the bottom, listening to
the sounds of pennies and quarters and all that fell between.
In twenty years, if he is earnest and life has been sober and
upright, with a crack of a hammer,
he can remember I thought of him, sight unseen,
and when only a month old.
Anthology Magazine, Voices, South Ash, Free Zone Quarterly, etc.
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