Sundays too my father got up early
And put his cloths on in the blueblack cold.
Then with cracked hands that ached
From labor in the weekday weather made
5 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 anger of that house,
10Speaking 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?