Sunday, August 9th
We come down to “our” pool at midday for a swim and some exercise to work out the kinks accumulated over the years and through this pandemic indolence.
Two men, one young, one older, attend at the barbeques on the patio. Corn and some other food are carefully turned.
A man, young, but not so young as the one at the barbeque comes out on a second-floor balcony with a wee boy, maybe 16 to 18 months old. The tosses down some necessity to the barbeque-ers.
After a while of swimming Jeff gets out of the pool. I stay in.
It feels so good to move without any pain. I feel buoyant for that reason more than being held up by the water. My toes begin to cramp; I notice more people coming to enjoy the tasty treats.
I hang on to the stair rails and exercise my cranky, bursitis hip with backward leg lifts before getting out of the pool. I shake out the skirt of my suit to help it to dry.
I hunker down on the lounge beside the one where Jeff is stretched out soaking up some sun.
A grandmotherly woman jogs by our lounge seats outside the fence chanting the echolalic sounds of the small tow-haired boy. They are singing in their own language.
I turn myself over and over – like those cobs of corn on the barbeque, watching the sun’s dance in the water and dream of lazy summer days like this becoming a habit, a routine, a ritual.
Pool poems, swim poems, no-pain poems, bystander poems, summer memories poems, sun’s warmth poems, quiet in the midst poems, letting to poems, bracketing poems, imagining poems. All is poem poem.
After Susan Wooldridge, Poem Crazy