62: My Father Sings, to My Embarrassment


at Las Villas, a small Carol City bar with a makeshift stage,

where he spends too much time drinking,

pretending he can learn to play the guitar at forty-five,

become a singer, a musician,

who writes about “Que Difícil Es….”

to live in Spanish in Miami,

a city yet to be translated,

in a restaurant where he has taken us for Cuban food,

where I sit, frozen, unable to make a sound,

where Mother smiles,

all her teeth exposed,

squeezes my hand,

where Mae and Mitzy hide

under the table shielding them from shame

with a blood-red tablecloth,

leaving my mother and me,

pale-faced, trapped by the spotlight shining in our eyes,

making it difficult for us to pretend

we do not know the man in the white suit

pointing to us.

 

This poem can be found in the volume, My Father Sings, to My Embarrassment.

Think about how the poem made you feel? Do you ever catch yourself silently mocking the ambitions of others? But does part of you ever wish you could ever be brave enough to try?

May you live out another beautiful poem in the collection of your life today, and we’ll see you again tomorrow.

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