a poem a day for a year #225

by Amy Turn Sharp


Once as a kid I saw someone almost drown at a city pool. You know the drill, whistles blow and people run and all of it slows to a taffy pull moment. Tan legs blurred past me and a mother screamed out. The kid lived, but I had kid fears about drowning. I had blue lip nightmares. Even now as a swimmer, this person who swims, I am afraid at times. It's 8pm and it's just athletes and old ladies doing water aerobics. And me. I can't do flip turns. I look like a giant flop fish. I try and sometimes wonder what it would be like to fall fall fall to the bottom of the pool, to a stadium of silent sound. To a quiet scary place. No one is watching me, I don't need to be watched. I am a lady doing laps and sad fish flop turns. The young, hot guards are flirting with each other. I see their mouths moving. They are serious about nothing. I could slip under without a sound. We could all die fast. Without someone watching over us.