He wonders what winter’s like in Pittsburgh,
imagines his father there—somber, alone—
waiting for the telephone to ring.

When he was young, his father took him out
into the snow and watched him eat his fill.
He wonders if the snow’s as white in Pittsburgh,

or if the steel refineries that blacken
the skies stain the drifts dark as wrought iron.
He’s waiting for the telephone to ring.

Downstairs, his mother knuckles dumplings,
kneading and palming them into shape.
He wonders what the girls are like in Pittsburgh

and wonders if his father has a new
woman there—another wife, a son—
and knows, if so, the phone will never ring.

His fingers graze the phone’s cold dial.
He prays his father’s still awake tonight,
pacing through a house somewhere in Pittsburgh,
waiting for the telephone to ring.