Dedicated To My Darling Violet

A Cheyenne Indian reads T. S. Eliot
in the attic room of a large rambling
family home 60 miles northwest of Tulsa Oklahoma.
The homestead is more than a century old.
Papers and manilla envelopes litter
the floor of the first floor study.
Broken plates and china litter
the floor of the nearby dining room.
In the sitting room, next to the hi-fi turntable,
sits a vinyl copy of Clapton’s 1977 album ‘Slowhand’.
This is the home of Beverly Weston. A man with a girl’s name.
Just like Duke John Wayne.
Like the guy Johnny Cash sang about.
Like the American playwright Tracy Letts.
Beverly hasn’t published any poetry for 40 years.
Beverly is a habitual drunk. A sot. An old rummy.
His wife Violet is struggling with her equilibrium.
His 3 daughters all have man troubles of their own.
It’s clear now to all these women, that their pater familias
will never-but-never be coming home again.
Beverly’d been in the water for 3 days before they found his body.
The fish had eaten his eyes.
The fish had eaten his eyes.
The fish, I’m sorry to say, had eaten both
of his eyes.

Steppenwolf Theatre present 'August: Osage County'

Eric Clapton and friends sing 'Lay Down Sally'