I can imagine my father and mother
lounging together on the family room sofa,
her head on his lap, his fingertips

making whorls in the sea of her hair,
contentedly watching some oater,
the raucous sounds of home,

the family they’d constructed 
rough-housing in the unfinished basement,
the inevitable crying from the youngest brother

when he’s hit too hard by the middle one, 
mom rising with a sigh to go comfort, her job,
while he, rifle-cracking cocktail ice 

between back molars,
considers his role in all this —  
pillar, provider, protector, punisher —

and basks in the satisfaction of doing everything right,
how that drive had come from his father,
how he’s handcuffed it to his sons.

Meanwhile, the evening news, Cronkite speaks of change:
Twin Towers going up in Manhattan,
the Earth beginning to burn.