**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park,
this is an ode to you.
**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park
ambles behind
the kids sprawling out of the entrance
like baby spiders spilling
out of the crushed mother’s abdomen.
**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
flip-flops his way to the lazy river,
shies his black Harley Davidson tanktop
to reveal his sunburnt
abdomious belly
flopping over his camo swim trunks.
He shakes off his flip-flops
and awkwardly wades in,
his hulking mass shifting with
each foot and tree trunk
of a leg smashing into
the shallow water,
sending shockwaves towards
screaming toddlers
in his wake.
Finding a vacant tube,
he turns his body around
and heaves himself
into the neon green donut
with considerable
and farcical
difficulty.
Mother at the pavilion
opens an eye from the lawn chair
and chuckles to herself,
applying another layer of sunscreen
over ruddy cancer-sensitive skin.
Sporting oblong racecar sunglasses
atop flushed puffy cheeks,
**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
basks in the baking mid-summer sun
and the cool ****-ridden waters
he sinks his hands and feet into.
What is on his mind?
I imagine it is as close
to nothing
as he aims to get,
free from responsibility
like a wiry youth
he knew
from long ago.
The piercing screams of laughter
from ambulant children
splashing about him
are fruitless
in penetrating
his enclave.
He coasts about this way
for an eternity,
his red leather hide
burning in the hot sun
enwreathing his glasses.
Meanwhile,
mother reads
under the cool shade
of the pavilion,
the kids tumble down
slides and splash gleefully,
endlessly,
and life lingers on a moment
for a necessary
sojourn.
**** Middle-Aged Dad
awakens from his sun-cooked daze,
approaches the exit
and prepares himself
for his departure.
Waddling left and right,
he flops starboard
splashing magnificently
like a cannonball rolling off the deck
into the ocean.
His sunglasses leave him in the ruckus,
he gropes blindly
with chlorine-infested eyes,
til he grasps the visage
and stands up in the water.
His great body surges
from the waters,
fading tattoos gleam
along with a bald spot
in the sunlight.
He ambles through the waters—
water spilling out of rolls of fat
undulating in the motion—
and sensuously runs a baseball glove of a hand
through thinning hair.
His trunks bunch up around
firm, beefy buttocks
and a tired old *****,
thick tree trunk thighs,
ending its constriction just above
the wrinkled knot
of kneecaps.
Mother snapshots a photo
of the visage,
his fruits spilling about him
in perpetual glee,
his stolid look of authority,
wisdom, drive,
and endearment.
Years later,
the ambulant youths
on the cusp of adulthood
leaf through old photo albums
suddenly eyeing the Father piously
in a newfound awe,
aware of his gargantuan countenance
that shielded their efflorescence.
He was their sun,
he was their shade,
and their sky—
for he knew
when to plant,
and when to water,
and when to wait.
Running a thumb over
the diaphanous visage
exemplifying
an analog adolescence,
they jeer each other
over the Father,
secretly harboring
an amassing reverence
for the great figure,
the **** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park.
