Tonight I want to return to Elizabeth,
 New Jersey, where Stephen Crane lies
 under a stone, and my father,
 after twenty years of skimping wages, finally
 opened his own dry-goods store.
 I worked there after school, on weekends,
 but it didn't take a genius to see
 from the sad look of the place—
 dim light, threadbare "goods"—where it was headed.
 In all the time I spent in that smog-sucking town
 of wan bargain hunters and hangdog merchants,
 I never knew of, let alone visited,
 Crane's grave. Then, I was more enamored of
 that other Crane, Hart (lovely name!),
 whose grave is in the belly of the South Atlantic.
 Besides, I couldn't imagine any reason why
 anyone would want to stop off, never mind
 die, in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It seemed
 nobody there cared about, much less
 knew, the color of the sky.











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