Kyle McCord Watching a Cialas Ad with My Father

The man adoring his wife adores her

more as she torques her hips to return the serve


she is regal as heat lightning seething from the court

I know how he feels wanting to work


each swollen muscle with his finger blunt

as a sculptor’s pitcher but these aren’t the hands


of Michelangelo they are the hands of a CPA

or a hospice patient or as the ad suggests a man


walking a terrier on a beach (jump cut

to a shot of their fingers twined against


the sun shimmering below the schism

of salt-veined sky and black stones)


their ordinariness is the point

so their problems are shadows of our own


but what is it that drives any of us

the words scrolling by sterile as sand can’t say


whether it’s ego or devotion

it can’t answer whether what follows minutes


later under sanctity of doctor-recommended pills

is an act out of passion or rote practice


what proof can anyone offer

but these sweated sheets pentimento


of the most fervid sculptors

blind to all but what they make



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