I had an uncle, once, who kept a rock in his pocket--
Always did, up to the day he died.
And as far as I know, that rock is still with him,
Holding down some dust of his thighbone.
From Mississippi he'd got that rock, he'd say—
Or, sometimes, from Tennessee: a different place
each year
He told it, how he'd snatched it up when he first
left home—
Running, he'd say—to remind him, when times
got hard
Enough to make him homesick, what home was
really like.
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