Monday, December 21, 2020

Prose Poem: Dead Sailors.

 




There was one too many in the pool.

I did a surreptitious head count, just like everyone else.

"Alright!" yelled our instructor, 

a short woman with bright red hair,

"When I call your name hold up your

hand -- and keep it up!"

That's hard to do when you're in a fourteen

foot deep chlorine scented pool at the Rec Center.

But we managed. All of us.

She ticked our names off the list,

her voice muffled through the mask.

Then she did it again. The morning sun

glared through the plate glass windows.

Our class time was leaking away --

we only had one hour. 

Most of us had jobs to get to.

"I still count thirteen, and there's only supposed

to be twelve in the deep water pool at one time"

she said helplessly, throwing up her hands in despair.

So we had a dirty stowaway among us --

too cowardly to give himself or herself up.

The lifeguard did a head count.

"Yup" he said stoically. "Thirteen."

"Do we have a volunteer who'll get out

so we can get started with class?"

asked our instructor hopefully.

No one volunteered.

We refused to make eye contact with

each other.

We just floated there, silent and flabby --

like dead sailors.



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