“This sonnet is inspired by a photograph of my father and me on vacation when I was a child. Moments after the photo was taken, we heard of the passing of Elvis Presley. I try to hint at that approaching loss in the final lines.
— James Maskell”
August 16, 1977
Reposed upon the woven chaise beside
the pond, my father sits with open book.
His slicked-back hair and darkened lenses hide
pecuniary fears that hold and hook,
that hunt and haunt the world he built from scratch
with aching back and calloused hands, while I,
just five years old, beside him reach and catch
the fleeting bubbles gently floating by,
then leaning forward gently purse my lips
and blow into the plastic wand again.
Some bubbles carry off, while others dip
to meet their bursting fate upon the sand,
or vanish just as soon as they appear
as if to warn that summer’s end is near.