Dirty Box

His mind by rights
and geneology
should be a dirty old box 
sealed shut
for seventy years
in a family garage,
but it’s apparently not:

he barely blinks at the two men
holding hands across his street,
Main Street,
while having their picture taken
in front of their new home.

He looks at my raised eyebrow
and grunts,

“Don’t you have better things
to worry about
than how I’m gonna react
to the new neighbors?”

Evidently, I don’t.
Having my worst opinions
of my father disproved
is a hard thing —

my own dirty box
broken open.

I refuse to look inside.