Joey, the head lifeguard,
is the first to hire you for your looks.
The unpaid days it rains
you sit in your tin-can car, water
tapping the roof like fingernails.
He lights a fat blunt to share. The wipers
smudge and fog you in. His lips loom large,
rubbery. You want your underpaid job.
Nights, restless kids scale the pool�s fence,
sink all the patio furniture in the deep end.
You�re out driving barefoot,
looking for anyone else.
Mornings, you dive for lounge chairs,
ferry weighted umbrellas upwards.
Holding your breath�long like that�
makes your heart jump. Men
in black socks, sandals, tiny speedo suits,
wink. Women tip you a buck
to set up card tables for canasta.
In the heat people slump and fuse
like glass, edges rounding, topography
melting for good. The ex-cons in for free swim�
sex offenders at the local half way house�
pretend to drown. One with an Elvis mullet
cops your phone number from the guard list
tacked to the shack wall. Your father
hangs up on him for weeks�
blames you. But you�re eating
warm sandwiches, cleaning stubbed toes,
yelling at deck-runners, whistle-twirling
and smacking yourself in the thigh,
counting heads disappearing
below the surface.