a belated Father’s Day poem: pasta e fagioli

my father
handed out towels
to the Republican elite
to dry themselves
after a workout
a dip in the pool
a shower
before they went home
to that perfect life
in Westchester County
while he took the subway
to Jamaica
caught the Bee Line Bus
90 minutes
if he was lucky
to a warmed up plate
at 9pm
of pasta e fagioli
the only heaven
he knew

long black hair

there was a woman
at the café
who kept brushing
her long black hair
tossing it back
over her shoulder
the way I’ve see
you do
sitting in your house shirt
in our bedroom
the same motion
before you would blow
a kiss
my way
I am lost
in memories
of you
a slight reworking under different circumstances but the motion, the memory the same