Painting by Eric Fischl at Skarstedt followed by an ekphrastic poem.
Late America
Daddy, enough
with the pool.
Let’s go eat.
Daddy, why
are you laying down
naked
curled up
like that?
Daddy, you look
like you’re in trouble.
Why are you
hugging yourself?
How about
that towel?
Your big white
butt is showing.
Your balls
are peeking out
between your legs—
one ball anyway.
Should I get
the old pool boy?
How about
the gardener,
what’s his name?
Looks like they’re just
pretending to work.
Daddy?
Are you dead?
If you’re dead—
I don’t think you’re dead—
but if you are, it
doesn’t look good.
Here daddy—
my flag towel…
I don’t need it
like you do.
The pool looks fine.
The grass is cut.
They should come over,
no?
I’m going inside,
daddy.
I’m getting cold.
May 14, 2017
(Revised)
Until next time,
keep writing.
Peace,
Andrés