Sometimes I can go to that place where everything
Is beautiful
Or fascinating
Or wondrous.
Even my father's encroaching depression,
Following us
Up the green sweeps of the golf course
As we tramped together
With the words slowly failing
Between us

I could cry at that now.
I could not cry then.

Finally it stood beside us
Baleful.
Then coldly with us
In the back seat of the car
All the way home.