The Morning After
November 25, 1932
This light of heaven or merely Michigan
in the house on Pingree where I wakened
to the beat of rain. Morning, my father
still home, in the kitchen drying dishes,
his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled over
delicate wrists. My father, still young,
reciting "Danny Deaver" and laughing
at such nonsense, laughing at his love
for the terrible songs he sings off key.
His eyes hold mine a moment and wander
off; he sees the future, my life and his,
what's left of it, my father singing
of the deer and the antelope, the melody
trailing off as the bright room spins.