The Eve of My Conception


January, 1949
Wind steered sleet sideways.
Russia had the nuclear bomb
and the Cold War dance shuffled on.
My father drove through the tempest,
not thinking of tensions between East and West
or imagining men in cloth caps foraging for food.
He came home dog-tired and scrubbed off foundry grime.
Maybe he sat on the couch in front of the Philco,
eating his wife’s chicken soup and
listening to Perry Como croon,
‘A you’re adorable, B you’re so beautiful…’
He might have smiled when she settled close,
and put her hand over his,
warming the space between them.
They did the washing up,
then climbed the stairs
without words.





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