AT THE LOCAL POOL I AM
pepper sprayed with sunscreen
on top of a swim shirt,
knowing more facts than a six year old
should about youth melanoma
and other various skin cancers
spouted from an anxious, pale,
jewish mother
Swimming only where I can stand,
the water is rippled and I am on on my back
floating, occasionally bumping into brick, think:
a milk-white DVD sign bouncing around the walls of a TV
which reminds me of the next time
I’m at the local pool
which has long since been emptied out
and filled with skateboarders on the weekend.
The vending machines in the corner are hollow and
I’m holding a bottle that sweats through a bag and
the talented skateboarders, the old kids
go fast enough in the bowl that they get air
and for a second,
my eyes take a picture:
their silhouettes pasted to a fading sky
but what it actually reminds me of
is the last time
I am at the local pool
that nobody skates in anymore:
the small amounts of water in it now
green with a touch of pool chair and
coca-cola vending machine
and I am poolside with some friends
feeling beautiful and floating
from that stuff that makes you
love me
Soaking wet, dripping chlorine onto the thankful
and willing ground, I eat an ice cream cone
that drips down my wrist and onto my sleeves
of my swim shirt and my mom will probably say
something about it when she looks up from her book
but things like that are for later
MAX SCHWARTZ: