by George Majchrzak

“Don’t eyeball fuck me, man,”
Said Dad, well lubricated
After a dozen
Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers
And three plastic coffee cups
Of Johnnie Walker Red.
Me, all of twelve,
Lars Ulrich mullet
Already tumbling down my skinny neck,
Averted my eyes,
Stared at the water of the hot tub—
A turbid cauldron of blacks and grays
In the moonlight.
Dad took a drag off his cigarette—
A single red eye glowing hot at me—
Then ashed on the smooth, concrete slab of the patio.
On the radio, Sam Cooke sang
“Another Saturday Night.”

---

George R Majchrzak is a graduate of the MFA program at Southampton College when it was with Long Island University, a former adjunct professor of English, and now a freelancer based in Ohio. He had been woodshedding for a few years, ghostwriting for a ghostwriter, but has now emerged with his own work. For some time he contributed to The Hockey Writers on the Pittsburgh Penguins beat despite being a lifelong Detroit Red Wings fan. He lives with his partner and three recalcitrant cats.