Happy Father's Day, Biggy
From the living room window,
I see my three-year-old Lola,
coming up the road on her father’s shoulders.
It’s late June, raining hard,
and she’s wearing Santa pajamas.
Only, she’s taken off the shirt,
and her skin’s a white flag
against the dark clouds that douse
her fiery curls. She’s wrapped
the shirt around his head
like a blindfold, and she steers
him--right, left, straight--
as he lurches one way, then another, arms
extended into this implausible world
of theirs, where I’d be welcome
if I knew the language, if
I weren’t dumbstruck—
stuck in this cool, far-flung
silence, while in some nameless city
my own father curses under an umbrella,
still trying to keep his wingtips dry.