Sundays too my father got up
early
and put his clothes on in the
blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that
ached
from labor in the weekday
weather made
banked fires blaze. No one
ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold
splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm,
he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and
dress,
fearing the chronic angers of
that house,
Speaking indifferently to
him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as
well.
What did I know, what did I
know
of love’s austere and lonely
offices?
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