There’ll come a year
when I do not see
ants up on the mortar,
or leaves gracing the trees.
Not ripples. Not sprays of water.
Goggles get torn off,
leaving greasy smears
of folk, suspended
in wheezing chemical baths
(my eyes). I’ll sit pool-side.
Let old sun bake my back.
As bricks give up their heat,
I’ll give up mine
(and other fine
insect pleasures).
And I’ll do it gladly,
as one resigned —
grateful, even.
None of it
was ever guaranteed.
