Poem: Early Morning Scene

This poem was originally inspired by a dream I had after listening to a song by Sufjan Stevens.

Early Morning Scene

The heat rising from the ancient vent

Sends ripples through the watery air,

And sitting still and quiet one can hear

The low monotone of drowned voices

Rising from the depths of the dungeon

Of dirt and insects beneath the housing skirt;

The long nostalgic moans of previous occupants,

The unfinished breaths that come

In the winter months of this old house

To lament and mock the end

Of long-extinguished fires.

The vaporless heat wraps the curtain

Like a drapery about the shoulders of my youngest son

Who stands barefoot over the metal grate

Reaching for the lofty window sill

With his little fingers to pull his chin above

And get a look out at the crust of newly fallen snow.

Sullen and stern for several minutes,

I watch and turn, kicking off my slippers,

And approach the window where my son had stood.

My toes half sunken in the metal grate

As I look out upon the empty lot adjacent to my own

And think I hear my son
Groaning to be let outside.