Ask again
for that morning,
the sun not risen yet,
the radio on the counter
drones and whines and squeals
seeking signal.
Look out the kitchen window,
past the sink, still with its last-night dishes,
across the misty yard
to that thin strand of woods
then the grassy playing field just beyond.
The static calms now, noise becomes music.
Ray Charles sings
of—Grace —Brotherhood
—America, America
about loving —mercy more than life.
Naked from the waist, my father,
readied for his morning shave,
leaves hot water running in the basin,
steps from the hall bathroom
to join me in the moment’s majesty,
looking out, watching that still lightless field
—everyone else in the house so safely sleeping.
Tom Driscoll Writing 