I’ve dad’s key to the barbershop.
I keep it on my key ring
for its wistful returns.
It opens the barbershop door.

There’s dad, arms frozen in air,
asking me to sweep ancient hair.
I don’t mind but for cinema lines,
in which case I’m still embarrassed—

People looking in, as through time,
at the immigrant kid
swept up in a barber’s dream,
without purpose or ambition.