He tells the wife when wild loons call
onscreen from lakes where they don’t live.
Measuring each morsel
the father spends his waking days:
A turkey sandwich. Beans and rice.
A Fuji apple, red and gold.
He folds the page of the novel:
Venus misplaced, straight overhead.
He wants all things
to be more right.
Upstairs, the daughters chirp
and dip their wings: another day.
And what could he name this always,
this need to count his ups and downs?
Above the marsh-side sycamore,
in daybreak blue, a fading moon.
In his notebook, the father writes: