On Old Video Tapes

On quiet evenings, when the wife sits a floor above,
typing furiously, he rehashes old movies.
In them, his pants are fitted, brightly-colored

and clinging and his daughter grips his finger
with her entire hand. He holds tight
to the remote control, rewinding and reviewing

her squealing laugh, his madman moves.
He was energized as he jammed himself
inside a bumper car with her secure

between his knees. The tape was blurry,
unfocused and partially dotted with fingers
since the wife watched and jiggled,

trying to hold and smoke simultaneously.
It was a carnival and he remembered feeling young
with that rolling ball of joy on his lap.

But how young he feels watching the remembering,
the Cadillac like a dinosaur resting in the lot.
How young he feels as the night closes in.