You didn’t need me, father, not much
though I washed your windows with vinegar—
and such a song that was
late August, the dear light
whispering in the goldenrods
and your boy
with his crooked teeth,
blind eyes,
a song or two in his heart
(aiming to be useful,
wanting to have the utility
of sons, to be of worth)
pushed a wadded rag
into mullioned corners
My Funny Valentine
on the battered radio,
crickets in the grass,
love songs everywhere.
Well, let me tell you
though its now too late,
ill favored devotion is my horn.
Posted with Blogsy
