by Stanley Kunitz
Mother was a crack of light and a gray eye peeping;
I made believe by breathing hard that I was sleeping.
Sister’s doughboy on last leave had robbed me of her hand; downstairs
at intervals she played Warum on the baby grand.
Under the roof a wardrobe trunk whose lock a boy could pick contained
a red Masonic hat and a walking stick.
Bolt upright in my bed that night
I saw my father flying; the wind was walking on my neck, the
windowpanes were crying.
- Share this Poem:
