Where My Father’s Pants Go, He Goes

When I drape your pants
over an easy chair,
a key chain from Gene’s
Gentlemen’s Club falls
from one of the pockets.
Where did you get this?
How should I know?
The other night you rode
in a limousine with the men
from the assisted living wing
to see an exotic dancers’ stage
and floor show, each of you
allowed to tuck a twenty
into the waistband of a young
thing’s skimpy panties,
good heart medicine, it’s
been said. I don’t remember
that, you say, innocent
as pants draped over a chair.
They were naked, I tell you,
as the legs that put on your pants.
Well, I’ll be damned, you say,
slipping the key chain
into your bedside stand.