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.