My
father drew a picture of some angels
Sitting in an attic, listening
To the people in the house below.
He drew pictures of my children
Among the giant balloons, floating
Down Fifth Avenue on Thanksgiving.
He sent me a picture of a sinister rabbit
Looking at the flower my mother always drew.
I knew the rabbit; he used to haunt
The margins of letters I wrote home.
Sitting in an attic, listening
To the people in the house below.
He drew pictures of my children
Among the giant balloons, floating
Down Fifth Avenue on Thanksgiving.
He sent me a picture of a sinister rabbit
Looking at the flower my mother always drew.
I knew the rabbit; he used to haunt
The margins of letters I wrote home.
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