For my da!

My Father Holds the Door for Yoko Ono

In New York City for a conference

on weed control, leaving the hotel

in a cluster of horticulturalists,

he alone stops, midwestern, crewcut,

narrow blue tie, cufflinks, wingtips,

holds the door for the Asian woman

in a miniskirt and thigh high

white leather boots. She nods

slightly, a sad and beautiful gesture.

Neither smile, as if performing

a timeless ritual, as if anticipating

the loss of a son or a lover.

Years later, Christmas, inexplicably

he dons my mother’s auburn wig,

my brother’s wire-rimmed glasses,

and strikes a pose clowning

with my second hand acoustic guitar.

He is transformed, a working class hero

and a door whispers shut,

like cherry blossoms falling.

Christopher Chambers