Only the aged
swim at this hour –
the sun still duveted
beyond the trees,
that haze we know
will come
pajama-ed yet
and yawning.
In the water,
we glide and heave
along the lanes,
weightless,
our skin underwater
pearled and luminous
unblemished
as if new again.
The adolescent gods
charged with
keeping us safe
fold for warmth
in their lifeguard thrones:
teen origami of limbs
and hoodies folded around
faded red rescue floats.
From their blank stare
across the water’s
dimpled surface
it’s clear
they’re waiting
for their lives to begin –
not here in a pool
of old women and men
but off somewhere
we can’t see,
some place better,
younger, faster,
someplace
beyond the weedy parking lot
full of elderly swimmers
going home
to shower, read
the paper’s daily doom,
and look out at this world
we’ll one day leave
to those who are now just children,
and probably still asleep
or dreaming
in their poolside chairs