Sitting in the recliner, you seemed so much smaller, watching
game shows with spinning
wheels, excited moms with bad perms. You agreed
to be Charlie as in Charlie’s Angels
as we ran around the rooms. I was Sabrina,
of course. Kim was Kelly. With our
walkie talkies and imaginary
guns we were going after a bad guy.
Was it 1979 or 1980 when two men held you
upside down in a bar while the third
punched? “Fucking Iranian.” Broken
ribs, broken everything
but spirit. How did you do it
Dad? Not become
bitter?