I.
He cruises the dusky streets for the first time
in six months, my eighty-nine-year-old father,
survivor of brain surgery and heart attack.
He leans over the wheel, a man happy in control,
excited to drive, impatient to sing.
I sit beside him, applaud such zest and drive,
but anxiety nestles with hope in my chest, the night
ahead, his return to the stage.
    Dad hums the song he plans on performing,
makes an occasional comment.
     After he parks the car in handicapped,
we sit for a moment, watch the setting sun.

II.
He walks to the stage and grabs the mic. Waits
with the leisure of a professional. Friends shift
in their chairs, sit up straight, Dad's success important
to them, too. And then Ramblin' Rose winds its tendrils
into the cracks and crevices of the bare room, climbs
upon warm laps, flushes color into pale cheeks,
where in sync and song, a scallop of scarlet blooms and shouts.

III
Silence absorbs the last note. For a second, no one moves,
everyone moves, stands. The guys whistle. 
Dad lifts his face, his shy, sweet smile like rain
in the desert, and the karaoke club drinks as if they
were waiting just for this—this rising from the dead,
this miracle, this lamb of a man, this tiger.

© by Mary Jo Balistreri.
Used with the author's permission.