My father,
who requires
half an hour,
in the bathroom;
and my mother,
who dreams
I have moved
to a home of navel oranges,
have taken off their Timex watches
and put on Zorba the Greek.

Squeamishly
I watch them on the patio,
clapping and clomping
and kicking their heels.

I cannot folkdance.

Swept up by the music,
I would be revealed
as a fuddy-duddy copy
of my parents.