Your dad came out to the car
to help me with the groceries
dressed as Captain Hook.
I shouldn’t have been surprised
since the night before
you smacked your forehead in bed
like an old sitcom
and said,
Mama, we totally forgot
to do the poster
for our play.
Your dad is wearing your red housecoat,
a tea towel around his neck,
and a black velvet miniskirt
as a wig.
I suspect it is universal,
submitting to these plots,
deserting our poise
with the other breakable things
we put out of reach.
Accountants
kings
taxi drivers.
All of them,
like your dad,
eventually find themselves
later in the day
talking on the phone,
a business call
an important tone of voice,
forgetting that their socks
are still pulled up high
like a pirate
over their pants.