An intermittent
shish from the hallway
Curves
Saturday's sleep
It's the slam spray of a thick 2-ton
motorboat
Plunging across
heavy seas
Rushing before a storm
I cling to the cold scrawny railing at the fore
The boat lurches up and hangs, suspended for a—
Then
pit drop stomach
Slam
Spray
Shish
We beat the
rain
We coast into a wide
harbor of calm
I turn to speak to the captain but the motor's way too loud
He waves from the wheel
There are hundreds of
white people here
Bones sticking up from
deep green water
They circle subsurface
springs
That make watery warts on the harbor's face
We're given a mean look from the swimmers
Whose
racism becomes apparent
I want to turn the boat around and leave
Still, the storm...
The outcome of this scenario becomes predictable
Like a
chess game or a
sitcom
I lose interest, gain
buoyancy
Rise back to my bed, the Saturday
sunlight
And silence
A poorly inflated kiddy pool
Folded in half
Waits in my hallway
maternally
Dragged here of its own accord
I ignore it but it will wait for me
Wait until I have to get up and
pee
Tangle my
ankles
And insist
It was me! Not the boat! Not the water!
Me, dragging my
poor plastic across your
hardwood floors.
You have to
help me.
I'm losing air.
It drags towards me with a definite
shish
It drags again, a definite
shish.