SwimmingSwimmingSwimming
My friend Kevin Is twenty four years old And doesn’t know How to swim.
So last summer I tried to teach him After hours At the beach.
He didn’t want To be embarrassed By having people See him flail around.
It was a bad idea To wait for everyone To leave The beach area.
The lifeguards weren’t there to save him when a wave Knocked him off my grip and swept him out passed where I could do anything.
I can still hear his exact words from last spring Confidentially a
ComebackComebackComeback
I don’t mind that my lip is thick and bleeding. Maybe there is a sagging blue welt Beneath my left eye, but who knows; The thick murky taste of blood That is running down my esophagus Is enough to have to soon pump my stomach. The knuckles of my right hand Are shaped like clumps of dried clay With bits of embedded porcelain jagging out. I might have heard them crunch When you smashed them between your car doors. But now all I can concentrate on Is the pressure of my foot crushing your airway While you lay unconscious in the dirt.
Old PuckOld PuckOld Puck
Designed to weigh a perfect six ounces, You came out of the mold without blemish. Yet, now you have worn edges
And discoloring marks along your back. The raised lettering across your face Has been beaten off through years Of cold, weathering practice. Your rough scent Is so heavy that it agrees with The pungent taste Of the wet, grimy ice That covers your jet black skin.
But despite all of this, some how the sound Of the stick slapping your side Is still the most intriguing
Feature you have.
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