Father's Day
or Meyer Cohen
Everyone’s posting
father stories so I thought I should
write a father poem.
Meyer Cohen was
my father’s name. He was Mike
to some people too.
More Meyer than Mike,
he looked like Enzo Pinza,
Italian singer.
Though he could not sing.
He could play the violin.
And tell a good joke.
He loved my mother.
They were opposite people.
Bur she loved him too.
After dinner they
often danced in the kitchen.
We would watch them both.
I saved his letters.
He wrote me weekly for years.
He’d start with weather.
Dear Esther he’d begin.
Today is hot, cold, rainy,
or just beautiful.
How are you today
he’d ask every single time.
I’m good, I’d reply.
And then I’d tell him
something about my own life.
“I’m happy enough.”
I liked his letters
and his careful handwriting.
Strong, loyal, and kind.
Wish we could talk now.
Many things I’d like to know
that I never will.
Mysterious man,
he did not reveal too much.
He knew we loved him.
My parents did the Mambo.
Dancing in the kitchen--that's my idea of a successful marriage. Seizing the moment, seizing each other. Thank you for your portrait.
Got a family photo?
My father Loved Perry Como, referred to him as Perrala.