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Postmodern Village
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Ode to Ol' Roy
by Francine DuBois

"Ol' Roy was real,"
I half scream, half hiss
in excitement, as if
suddenly given proof
of the afterlife.

Yes, Virginia, there was
an Ol' Roy, but he died.

And then, just as
instanteously, I fight
back that shallow tear
from the corner of my eye.
"I will not cry," I tell
myself as I look at the
photo of Ol' Roy's last
board meeting. "I will
not cry."

And the rest of the
museum is tinged with
that sadness, lingering
behind me like a ghost.
I almost lose it when
we see Sam's truck,
the ghost of dead
hunting dogs and dead
trucks merged. And it
all strikes me as so
melancholy: the empty
wedding dress, the empty
offices, the empty truck.

And it all reminds me
of August summers on
my grandparents' farm
when it was just me
playing house with the dog
raised on Ol' Roy brand dog food.

And, like Ol' Roy,
all those are gone now,
just ghosts haunting
me in Wal-Mart aisles.

 

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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