Dance with my father at my sons’ wedding,

Holding the loose creases of his jacket,

 

My arm preventing his fall,

While we shuffle, slide back, side-step,

 

His spit-n-polish shoes,

Of early mornings and the mud brush,

 

Lined up on the Sunday paper,

Toe-to-shiny-toe with mine.

 

Use his handkerchief to wave away the car with,

And wipe away my tears with,

 

The age-soft fabric and blood-maroon D,

Mother embroidered for him there.

 

Feel his prickly cheek on mine,

His stale shirt of cigars and sweat,

 

Feel the shiver and know, with wonder,

That ice feeling,

 

Bow-in-hair-ribbon, look, I’m young feeling,

Please leave me in the car feeling,

I don’t remember yesterday feeling,

 

As though I lost more than he took,

As though the dance and the handkerchief,

And his shiny, shiny shoes,

 

Are what mattered.

 

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