He waits outside the house in the car
for the boy to appear.
The monthly ritual as decreed;
the pick-up, the over-night stay.
He wonders what they’ll do.
He notes the trim flowerbeds,
the grass more lush than he remembers,
the path, neatly swept.
All reproach him for old neglectful ways.
Her car’s not there.
After five minutes he has to go
and ring the bell of the house
he used to live in;
has to see the new husband
his boy calls dad.
They talk about the weather and baseball
until the kid comes down the stairs
with his overnight bag.
Tall, lanky, almost fifteen
with an attitude.
Each time a little more distant.
Polite, but only just.
He wonders what they’ll do
knowing it will be the same routine,
a stop at McDonald’s, the usual questions
about school, the drive to his apartment
with the pull-out bed,
then watching the game on TV
to help fill in the long silences.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
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