scotch-taped to the inside door
(not tacked; tacks will mar the grain, John...)
was a picture of Rita Hayworth
all slink and smoke in that Gilda dress,
no straps and a poised Pall Mall,
cherry lipstick on its air-brushed filter
(I go to bed at night with her, son, but wake to your mother)
The picture was tattered, torn at the edges;
peeled down in a place or two like black satin gloves
it was signed at the bottom corner, in faded ink
that read 'To John...Love, Margarita'
(Close the closet, dear, I can't stand the excitement)
I asked my father once who signed that blue name
but it turned out to be 'just a girl from Brooklyn, kid'
who danced at the Palace Theater where he ushered
society couples to their seats for 10 cents an hour
(but now he is a faithful and obedient servant)
That picture hung there as long as I did, and longer;
it warmed him, it was the only thing that ever did and
when my father died, I found it folded neatly beneath
his unionsuits, in a drawer my mother never touched
(more women in the world than anything, else, son)
except insects. But what I want to know is
did it bother you?
