Father: Every Morning Of His Life Poem by Donal Mahoney

Father: Every Morning Of His Life



The cup he took his tea from
all those years was Army surplus,
made of tin. It whirred

to the spoon he wound in it
15 times per lump of sugar.
We who slept in rooms just off

the kitchen rose like ghosts
to the winding of that spoon.
In my house, now, mornings

Sue's the first downstairs. She
scalds the leaves and wonders:
Will the winding ever end?

Sunday, November 23, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: father
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success