True that tenderness never stopped 

a bomb, got a man elected 

president, or netted billions 

in market shares. But when

my father stands in the wedge

between car and car door,

clutching the frame and trembling,

and my brother positions the wheelchair

behind him, grasps him under the arms,

guides him into the nylon seat

for the hundredth time as gently

and unhurried as the first,

I want to bow down.