At Home

Your mother’s name is Irene
but you call her Joe instead.
She smiles. Your father’s name

is Alphonse though you call him
Alicia. He grins, shakes hands.
After dinner is finished

you hand them the darts. The ones
from Madagascar. The ones
with feathers of peacock

ivory shafts, chromium-tipped.
As you remove your silk shirt
you can hear the wine glasses

tinkle and their low smiles
laugh over blue candlelight.
You lower your head growing bald

You place both hands on the wall
As you settle down in New York
For another evening at home.