poem

 

In the pool at Aquaboulevard

the swimmers bob in the denatured wave

for five minutes every hour.

 

I check the affiche for the slides

which grades them for difficulty and age.

Adam wants to do them all.

 

Here’s the mangrove hot tub!

Here’s the 20 person jacuzzi!

The naiads are all dead.

 

Poor dears, they lived fearful lives

singing the blues under crystalline rivulets.

I do not think they will sing for us.

 

We invented fun

in the headlong 20^th century

grading our sensations accordingly.

 

Screaming down the intestinal turns

of the Aquaraft

I forgot my connection to the greater whole.