Marina del Rey
Los Angeles
California
They appeared on the deck through a door,
him suited for a desk indoors,
her sandaled, white robe wrapped,
two pale calves protrude,
a hint that she is present next to nude.
With cheerful poise she tweaks his tie
and gives a kiss. He toys with her belt,
then turns away and makes an exit toward his day.
She slips the white curtain of her cover down.
The shadow she wears suits her body well,
both concealing and revealing her solid form.
With tugging fingers and a squirm
she makes the small adjustments modesty requires,
then quickly descends the steps
into the splash and trickle of the pool.
In the shallows
she fits a rubber cap upon her hair,
then, leaning her length into a glide,
begins the long labor of meticulous laps,
knifing quicksilver slices down the lane,
arms reaching to grab, pull, and displace
the viscous medium of space
in which each managed stroke takes place.
Repeatedly she carves swift concavities of buoyant grace,
then stops and stands to wipe the water from her face
and observe the sites which held her, seconds back, in moist embrace.
Noting how quickly her presence was erased,
she briefly feared the forward thrust of time’s relentless pace.
2014