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
home
90 minutes
if he was lucky
to a warmed up plate
at 9pm
of pasta e fagioli
the only heaven
he knew