On the twenty-fourth of May,
In the year ninety-five,
My father rushed into his little house—
No. 2, on a street that barely breathed.
Half brick, half wood,
It bulged slightly on the side,
A stubborn house that refused to collapse,
Like him.

He had studied far away,
With Professor Harding—
A man of levels and formulas,
Of tables and truth.
My father would say,
“What a remarkable book!”
And wave his hands through the candle smoke,
As if stirring the periodic table to life.