I suppose we did not want for love.
They were considerate parents, if a bit aloof,
 
or more than a bit. He was a colossus
of enthusiasms, none of them us,
 
while she kissed our heads and mended socks
with a wistful, faraway look.
 
She might have been a little, well, daft.
And he—Allons, my little ones, he’d laugh,
 
then leave without us.
And those “friends” of his!
 
Anyway, he’s gone off to “discover
himself” in San Francisco, or wherever,
 
while she’s retired to the condo in Boca.
We worry, but she says she likes it in Florida;
 
she seems, almost, happy. I suppose they were
less caregivers than enablers,
 
they taught by example, reading for hours
in the draughty house and now the house is ours,
 
with its drawers full of junk and odd
lines of verse and stairs that ascend to God
 
knows where, belfries and gymnasia,
the chapel, the workshop, aviaries, atria—
 
we can never hope to fill it all.
Our voices are too small
 
for its silences, too weak to spawn an echo.
Sometimes, even now, when the night-wind blows
 
into the chimney flue
I start from my bed, calling out—“Hello,
 
Mom and Dad, is that you?”