Page 67

By Jack Joseph Smith

We are harder Him from underneath The tips of my Me from the top I have shrunk I don't have him to joust About the lift in barefoot shin anymore I have antique that I could haul to New york Big and little wood and the eye that looks inbetween Sunshine and rain were always heaven to me He was just a good guy in the night Now I go out and see the stars And say what wonderful luck for the poor without a street light

Original Scan

AI Interpretation

GPT

This page turns loss into a night-sky reflection, balancing memory of a man against the poor conditions that frame the speaker's life.

Barefoot shin, antique wood, stars, and street light all keep the poem close to physical detail. The speaker's tenderness is real, but it is never separated from poverty or from the rough beauty of the world around her.

Claude

`We are harder / Him from underneath / The tips of my / Me from the top`. The antique she could haul to New York; the good guy in the night now gone; `what wonderful luck / for the poor without a street light`. Gratitude for the dark.