Who's going to pay for this?
asks my father as he picks up
a dripping foot-long hot dog.
I watch a yellow glob drip onto
his jacket and tell him I will pay
because it's his birthday. If I knew
you have that kind of money I
would order steak is his stock
reply. My son adds and many more
to the end of the birthday song.
My father stares at the floor.
After his favorite dessert, angel
food cake and chocolate ice cream,
I tell him I don't have enough
money to pay the check. He hands
me the same twenty-dollar bill
he has handed me for the last
five years, the bill I will put back
into his wallet, at home, after
I sponge off the mustard and
put him to bed.


This poem first appeared in the San Diego Union Times.
Used here with permission.