Working Late

    A light is on in my father's study.

    "Still up？" he says， and we are silent，

    looking at the harbor lights，

    listening to the surf

    and the creak of coconut boughs.

    He is working late on cases.

    No impassioned speech！ He argues from evidence，

    actually pacing out and measuring，

    while the fans revolving on the ceiling

    winnow the true from the false.

    Once he passed a brass curtain rod

    through a head made out of plaster

    and showed the jury the angle of fire——

    where the murderer must have stood.

    For years， all through my childhood，

    if I opened a closet . . . bang！

    There would be the dead man's head

    with a black hole in the forehead.

    All the arguing in the world

    will not stay the moon.

    She has come all the way from Russia

    to gaze for a while in a mango tree

    and light the wall of a veranda，

    before resuming her interrupted journey

    beyond the harbor and the lighthouse

    at Port Royal， turning away

    from land to the open sea.

    Yet， nothing in nature changes， from that day to this，

    she is still the mother of us all.

    I can see the drifting offshore lights，

    black posts where the pelicans brood.

    And the light that used to shine

    at night in my father's study

    now shines as late in mine.