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- Sundays too my father got up early
- And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
- then with cracked hands that ached
- from labor in the weekday weather made
- banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
- I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
- When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
- and slowly I would rise and dress,
- fearing the chronic angers of that house,
- Speaking indifferently to him,
- who had driven out the cold
- and polished my good shoes as well.
- What did I know, what did I know
- of love's austere and lonely offices?
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