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<div class="content"><span class="topnavlink"> <a href="index.html">home</a> | <a href="about.html">about frederick morgan</a> | <a href="pubindex.html">publications</a> | <a href="poemsindex.html">poems</a> | <a href="press.html">press</a> </span></div>
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<span class="title">Poems: New and Selected</span>, 1987<p>
<a href="pub_newandselected.html">Click here</a> to learn more about this book and how to purchase it.<p>
<hr align="left" width="50%"><br>
<strong>Mr. Boyd</strong><p>
"Jesus will take care of it,<br>
my mother used to tell me—<br>
Jesus, Jesus<br>
that's all I ever heard,"<p>
said Mr. Boyd the brakeman<br>
one afternoon near dusk, as<br>
we sat in the slatey clearing back of<br>
Scarborough Station<p>
and looked down at the Hudson where<br>
a few small boats were veering—<br>
"she died eaten up by cancer<br>
with a big sappy smile on her face<p>
still talking about Jesus—<br>
I tell you, kid, it's the cats if<br>
you can just believe in it"<br>
(old Nick the Greek was fishing with<p>
a handline from the dock,<br>
chomping a fat Bull Durham plug<br>
behind his drooped mustaches)<br>
"but <em>how</em> you can believe in it—<p>
that's the scramdam question,<br>
with all the things we know these days<br>
or think we know." His eyes<br>
were two brush-covered caverns, as<p>
he squinted far beyond me at<br>
the Hudson and its sails,<br>
scratching beneath one arm-pit<br>
the denim smeared with oil.<p>
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