Bingo
by Michael McNeilley
It is 1953, and
I always go to bingo with my mom.
As we get dressed together,
I look at myself
in the mirror
over her dressing table,
then at the picture of
my dad.
My broad features hold
no resemblance
to his dark,
slender good looks.
At bingo,
watching the priest
look at my mother,
I suddenly get the idea
father Muldoon,
with his broad Irish features,
is my real father.
My dad died in Korea.
But Father Muldoon is
right here.
Bingo this day
Bingo and I
win a silver-plated
table lighter.
I take it from Father Muldoon,
but I cannot say the word
“Father” when I try to
thank him.
The old women
look daggers at me
as I carry it back
to my seat.
