The Van In The Pool: A Poem
Posted by Al Pastor
The Van In The Pool
The van is in the pool again,
and it’s fucking 1986 again.
My mother is standing in the
same spot, with the same
look on her face, only now
she’s holding my son
instead of a soggy paper
plate with a mound of potato
salad and lumpy lake of
baked beans.
No neighbors around her this
time. No fireworks to cancel
or take down to the lake. Just
my wife standing next to her
drinking the tea she made in
the yard from a huge plastic
tumbler the color of antifreeze.
The van is in the pool again,
shallow end, filling up with
the clear, warm, chlorinated,
pool water soaking my feet
and jeans, lifting the little, fat
beer bottle from the cup
holder so it floats and bobs
in front of the radio.
My mother looks like she
might vomit. My wife’s
head slowly, slightly
negates side to side. The
water stops rising at my
belly and I have not been
electrocuted, like they said
was why I was lucky the
last time.
The van is in the pool again.
The boy in my mother’s
arms smiles at me, and I
want to smile back.
The Van In The Pool
The van is in the pool again,
and it’s fucking 1986 again.
My mother is standing in the
same spot, with the same
look on her face, only now
she’s holding my son
instead of a soggy paper
plate with a mound of potato
salad and lumpy lake of
baked beans.
No neighbors around her this
time. No fireworks to cancel
or take down to the lake. Just
my wife standing next to her
drinking the tea she made in
the yard from a huge plastic
tumbler the color of antifreeze.
The van is in the pool again,
shallow end, filling up with
the clear, warm, chlorinated,
pool water soaking my feet
and jeans, lifting the little, fat
beer bottle from the cup
holder so it floats and bobs
in front of the radio.
My mother looks like she
might vomit. My wife’s
head slowly, slightly
negates side to side. The
water stops rising at my
belly and I have not been
electrocuted, like they said
was why I was lucky the
last time.
The van is in the pool again.
The boy in my mother’s
arms smiles at me, and I
want to smile back.
2 Comments:
This is so good that it really really demands further emphasis in some form on the web site.
The Gamblong POET is -- let it be said -- an interesting gambler, but a brilliant poet. And I will gladly stack up his verses versus the half-baked McSweeneyesque or New Yorkeresque slop that "poetry lovers" (if they exist) say is "decent."
Another bang up job. Could the web site PLEAsE offer a collection of the Gambling Poet's verses. I will personally pay $50 American dollars for this. Promise.
I went to the Oaks on the Gambling Poets advice and very quickly lost 100 dollars.
Does that count?
My kid played the PFSH theme a few times this weekend. And sang it a bunch too.
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