Daily my father rose early
And put on his clothes in the dark.
He’d make his way to the kitchen
As I slept sound in my room.
Waking to the sound of the brew,
I was greeted by the rousing aroma.
A series of crinkles would follow
As he thumbed through the Sun-Times.
Entering, pattering across the floor,
I would approach with quiet respect.
His smile mirrored the half doughnut,
Artfully placed on his plate.
© 1972, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved. (1959)
