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.
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