And so he came again,           my father,
gaunt and lined now,           smoking a Lucky,
sipping a Scotch.           Sat the long hour
astride the kitchen chair,           saying nothing,
old pilgrim returning           with battered briefcase
from the hour of business           to the iced tumbler,
saying nothing,           lightly pawing
the New Bedford paper.           The long highway
beneath Hotel Hill           arrowed through wood
south to hurricane beaches,           north the way out.
And so he came again,           my father,
gaunt and lined now,           smoking a Lucky.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 2, on page 27
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