Warhol at Wheatlands

Warhol at Wheatlands

Warhol at Wheatlands

He’s polite looking over the polaroids
saying gee & fantastic, though always
standing close to the warm glow

of the Wonderheat as the flames
lick the self-cleansing glass.
It’s winter down here & the sudden

change has left him wanting. Fog
creeps up from the gullies & toupées
the thinly pastured soil. It doesn’t

remind him of America at all. But there’s
a show on television about New York so
we stare silently, maybe he’s asleep

behind his dark glasses? Wish Tom
& Nicole were here.  He likes the laser
prints of Venice cluttering the hallway,

the sun a luminous patch trying
to break through the dank cotton air
& the security film on the windows.

Deadlocks & hardened glass make him feel
comfortable, though being locked inside
with Winchester rifles has him tinfoiling

his bedroom – he asks one of us but we’re
getting ready for seeding & can’t spare a moment.
Ring-necked parrots sit in the fruit trees

& he asks if they’re famous. But he
doesn’t talk much (really). Asked about Marilyn
he shuffles uncomfortably – outside, in the

spaces between parrots & fruit trees
the stubble rots & the day fails
        to sparkle.