Four girls. We knew they'd grow
up and leave home. But New York,
all of them! Please, God,
tell me why.
I think Father had his doubts about
four daughters; man wants a son somewhere,
But now they're far off, he takes it
harder than I do; writes more
letters; worries more.
Saturday nights, we play cards,
watch TV, in bed by eleven. I know
what Father's thinking
as he slips off to sleep:
what are they doing now...
dancing and drinking...
wrong kind of men...
crazy city life...
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