and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?
-- Robert Hayden (1913-1980), born Asa Bundy Sheffey, devout Baha'i, poet, and professor, first African American appointed Poet Laureate, 1976-1978.
Robert Hayden reads this poem:
