Youth

Strange bird, His song remains secret. He worked too hard to read books. He never heard how Sherwood Anderson Got out of it, and fled to Chicago, furious to free himself From his hatred of factories. My father toiled fifty years At Hazel-Atlas Glass, Caught among girders that smash the kneecaps Of dumb honyaks. Did he shudder with hatred in the cold shadow of grease? Maybe. But my brother and I do know He came home as quiet as the evening. He will be getting dark, soon, And loom through new snow. I know his ghost will drift home To the Ohio River, and sit down, alone, Whittling a root. He will say nothing. The waters flow past, older, younger Than he is, or I am.