disrepair

fathers leave a house in a rowdy disrepair, windows raised
in dead of night, cracks to open air, dust beneath the marriage
bed, jumbles on the stair, and on the kitchen table rings

from coffee cups, wearied by anxious mothers, careless
in despair; and fathers leave a son for some comfort, for
some fame, though he does so with misgiving, leaves

a question with his name, will he cherish him with honor,
speak to memories with pride, or will he learn the
harshness of a woman, sitting in her corner chair, weaving

cloaks for bitter winters, tracing spells within her lair,
she is full-up with mutters, dark in her confusions, blinded
by the past; yes, fathers leave a house in a state of rowdy

disrepair