Father’s Day, and outside Giant,
across from a herd of red-handled carts,
a man in a plaid summer shirt
and wide aviator frames,
his gray hair wet and combed straight back,
sits with his arms folded
in the open boat of his Chevy Impala.
Perhaps he is waiting for a wife or daughter
who has gone inside
for cake frosting, a bag of spuds
for the potato salad
while he listens to the plaintive
baritone of Frank Sinatra.
Soon, with one arm draped
across the back of the seats,
he is joining in, the two of them
crooning like bar buddies
about facing that final curtain,
doing what they had to do,
taking the blows,
or, in this case, the glances
of bemused shoppers who pass them there.