Sunday Afternoon

after Seurat

No one could have foreseen
the catastrophe-it rose from

the still water and the sun

blocked out by spring chapeaus
and parasols. They were waiting,
or posing-and here and there a dog

poked at the ground, and the smoke rose
lazily from the boater's pipe. Earlier

a mother wiped an eyelash from her daughter's cheek,
the local rowing crew powered their way

across the water, and the town lush slid vermouth
down his throat.