© By Boinkaz
The air is a humid custard
raisined by ambitious flies.
Around us camp chairs gingerly bloom from their canvas covers
and line the pool
vanishing up from the finish
the water is thrown like a reflective towel
this pool is a perfect moment of Roman sanity,
order in a collapsing empire.
This perfect rectangle of
vaulted sky set in the earth
and licked by four stripes of black.
the grey pachinko balls
dissuade the meek.
Nary a drop of rain
while distant lightning
surfs high on the heat.
Yet the timid cry:
“Get to the car.
Get to the car.
Tell that swim lady we’re going to sit in the car.”
The bold among us move
to fill the gaps and take the corners
best for viewing the finish.
the timers click their blue stopwatches
waiting during the national anthem
and the teams a crush of cheers
and the vines of sluiced humanity
climb in mime the underwater pole.
white team collared shirts
and girls dance in unison beside a lip of pool.
kids congregate and hoot to their sides.
warm up and narwalls trail aft nillyside
swimmers glance to the side,
then drop from the blocks
like muskrats onto passing fish
jammed like blue tuna on a swirl of krill
Arms risen to the god of swimming
water caps fastened tight
then backfalls to the water
windmills of prismed water.