The Linnet's Wings The Winter´s Tale, Ravens and Robins - Page 84

The Winter´s Tale Remnants by Tom Sheehan Grandfather ran the city dump, burned clinkers in a little house made of scrap. On cold nights drunks slept in, thicket ‘round the grouse. They were welcome, long night heat of iron stove they wrapped around, hot rim cold feet were propped upon, quick difference from frozen ground, bare railroad tracks and entry ways, darkness where abides the ghost, or last resort, dread cardboard wrap. The lonely birds came in to roost, flew in at dusk. He stoked the fire to flames, dried their feather sward; often he left his lunch about, like suet hanging in the yard. On Saturdays I brought his lunch, dense laminates of bread and meat, thick and heavy, coarse as sin, brown banana we would not eat dark coffee bottled in a pint, wound about with paper clasp. I never saw one bottle finished off within his grasp, 84