The tiny fire escape is our private spot.
He says he’s sorry he’s gone so often.
Do I remember when I was six
and he took me into Manhattan?
I wore a red coat, red shoes,
and perfect white leather gloves
embroidered with tiny blue buds.
I recall watching the road into the city:
billboards, telephone lines, bridges,
muddy sky.
The parking garage man said,
“So you’re the boss man’s little lady
I’ve heard so much about?”
The elevator man, Jimmy,
knew my name!
My dad’s corner office had the most windows,
the biggest desk, too.
My father bragged, “Your daddy runs this joint!”
From his window, as it got dark,
we could see Manhattan laid out in front of us
like a glittering tablecloth.
How could I not remember?
It was a perfect day,
until he turned the key in our front door.
Mother was waiting.