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.

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