My Father Laughing in the Chicago Theater

His heavy body would double itself forward At the waist, swell, and come heaving around To slam at his seatback, making the screws groan And squawk down half the row as it went tilting Under my mother and me, under whoever Was out of luck on the other side of him. Like a boxer slipping punches, he'd lift his elbows To flail and jerk, and his wide-open mouth Would boom out four deep haaa's to the end of his breath. He was laughing at Burns and Allen or Jack Benny In person or at his limitless engagement With Groucho, Chico, and Harpo. While my mother Sat there between us, gazing at the stage And chuckling placidly, I watched with amazement The spectacle of a helpless father, unmanned, Disarmed by laughter. The tears would dribble From under his bifocals, as real as sweat. He would gape and gag, go limp, and spring back to life. I would laugh too, but partly at him, afraid Of becoming him. He could scowl anywhere, Be solemn or blank in church or going to work, Turn grim with a cold chisel, or he could smile At babies or football games, but he only laughed There in that theater. And up the aisle And through the lobby to the parking lot And all the way home, I'd see the glow on his cheeks Fade to the usual hectic steelmill sunburn.