Dark and still at 5:30 a.m.

Some mornings, very early, I put on
my dead father’s brown corduroy robe,
more than twenty years old, its lining torn,
the sleeves a little too long for me,
and walk through the house
with my father, groping our way
through the chilly, darkened rooms,
not wanting to waken our wives with a light,
and feeling on our outstretched fingers,
despite the familiar order of each room,
despite the warmth of women sleeping near,
the breath of emptiness.